Nightglow Window

Spring Break 2007 – Day 3 – A Day In Four Parts

Part One: No Boating Today
The gale hasn’t let up and the nice woman at the boat rental counter laughs when I ask if they're letting rental boats out on Lake Powell this morning. Not a chance. Looking at the whitecaps, it all makes sense.

We drive away from the Wahweap marina slightly disappointed but with 180 extra dollars still in the checking account.

Someday I’ll come back and do it right.


Part Two: Upper Antelope Canyon
It was an August thunderstorm in 1997. A hard rain fell and the slickrock canyons funneled the deluge until, five miles downstream, it was a wall of water and debris nearly 50 feet high. When the flash flood entered the vertical slot of Lower Antelope Canyon the eleven hikers in its depths never had a chance. The deaths closed the canyon – both upper and lower – for nine months.

Canyoneering is a risky business, and one always pursued with a wary eye to the sky. A few times each year, these narrow slots are scoured by flash floods. Tree trunks, wedged dozens of feet off the sandy floor, reveal just how intense these episodes are.

The Upper Antelope Canyon is administered by the Navajo Nation and is the most popular tourist destination in Page. It’s widely considered the most photogenic slot canyon in the world.

Unlike Water Hole Canyon, though, it’s hardly a hike and pretty safe as slots go. A burly four-wheel-drive truck with low-inflation tires will ferry us two miles up the dry creek bed. A Navajo guide will take us into the narrows.

Sydney and Hannah are giddy as the truck sets off, and their glee is infectious. Soon we’re all beaming like loons, and the other couple (French maybe?) we share the truck with grin back at us.

We’ve beat the crowds and only a few other parties are in the canyon as we head in. The temperature instantly plummets and it's dark. Hannah begins to wig out a bit as we head up the sinuous, sand-bottom slot. It is a bit creepy I guess. Upper Antelope Canyon is so narrow that you can only occasionally glimpse the sky.

I brought my tripod and it’s needed. Most of the exposures are more than two seconds long. In the darkest sections, they’re eight seconds. But the stories are true, it’s an incredible place. But, yeah, I’d hate to be caught inside when the seasonal flash floods arrive.

























Part Three: Monument Valley
The Navajo Nation covers 27,000 square miles and the drive from Page to Monument Valley heads through the heart of it. It’s surprisingly varied and green and lush – the only thing that’s not a shock is the feeling of being in the far "back of beyond" as we travel southeast from Page on Highway 98. We see a car maybe once every ten or fifteen minutes.

After a few hours of driving, the distinctive shapes of Monument Valley poke above the horizon and continue to impress as we draw nearer.

The campground there is a shambles, a repeat of Bullfrog. Except this time there are no toilets. Looks like we'll be pushing on to Plan B, an out-of-the-way spot called Goosenecks State Park that I only have sketchy details for. We'll keep our fingers crossed.

But all that will have to wait, because now we're heading down the scenic dirt roads into Monument Valley for a closer look at the John Ford/Wells Fargo monoliths.
























Part Four: Goosenecks State Park
Mexican Hat is Radiator Springs -- or at least as close as you'll find. It's the home to the Swingin Steak and the Dirty Ol' San Juan flows through a nearby canyon. There ain't much else, though.

But we're heading up the road a ways to one of the deepest "Entrenched Meanders" in the world. A whole god-awful long time ago, the San Juan River flowed lazily across a flood plain. As the Colorado Plateau slowly rose, the river kept its banks and dug its way through the layers of sandstone. Voile, the Goosenecks.

The road to the State Park is lonely, but when we finally pull over the final crest, we know we've found our spot. In fact, it's one of the best camping setups I've ever seen. Two RVs are parked down the way a quarter mile or so -- but no one else is here. The river is 1,000 feet below. We stand on the brink of the canyon and enjoy the strange sensation of watching the San Juan flow toward us, then away from us, toward us, and away from us again as the river bed twists and turns.

And when the sun sets and the last of the Carne Asada is tucked away, we're treated to one of the most eloborate displays of stars I've ever seen. No wonder, this is one of the darkest and most remote corners of the United States. And for tonight at least, it seems like it's all ours.