Lake Powell Part 8 of 10

2002 LAKE POWELL THOUGHTS

September 1 –– 5, 2002
DeRay, Jeanette, Ed & Amy Hugh

This is the first time ever
we've been to Lake Powell
with a Certified Life Guard,
and a Small Craft Safety Instructor. 
Of course, we don't have a small craft,
but it never hurts to be prepared,
especially on big, bottomless,
endless lakes.

Amy
Stillness, calmness and peace!
Who could ask for anything more?
Well, if Amy would bring
her banjo or guitar –– that would be swell.
She says the heat would ruin the instruments.
"Aren't we going to zip
our bags together?"
DeRay asks as we prepare for bed
at 2 AM Sunday night.
"Why?"
"There's more room."
"How's that?"
"I don't fit in mine.
I need them zipped together."
"More room for you
means less room for me,
Mr. Mathematician."
He's not dumb.

DeRay
We prized his sour
dough hot cakes
with pear syrup
each and every morning.
What diet?
At our age (and having given up),
we eat what is delectable.
Maybe we'll go back on the diet
next Tuesday
--and other fantasies.
Earlier, at Bullfrog slip on Sunday night
surrounded by the low mountains,
the sky is expansive and round,
filling the scope of our vision.
Tonight, tucked in a cavern off the Main Channel
with sheer cliffs surrounding us,
the sky is V-shaped and limited--still dazzling.
"I've got the best spot," Ed gloats
as he snuggles in the bed next to the bathroom.
He hates to be miserable by sleeping on the top deck
and having to worry about going
down the ladder to the bathroom fifty times a night.
"You can't see the stars," I remind him.
"They all look the same."
He says the scenery all looks the same too.
I tell him that each view
up and down the channel
is completely different
and that it took eons of time for the sun,
rain, wind and water to carve these majestic,
colorful, swiggly, swaggly, variegated, sheer,
solid, massive displays of divine art.
"It all looks the same to me," he summarizes.
The first two nights he comes on the deck for a while
to enjoy the wondrous sky with us. 
Southern Utahans still have a Milky Way,
bright stars, discernable constellations;
satellites—Awesome.
Amy teaches us Lira this year.
I'm sure she's taught us before but we forget.
As Ed goes down to bed, he says,
"Know what I liked best about the night sky?"
"What?"
"The airplanes."
Earlier in the day, 

Ed
I put my hand on his shoulder for balance
while I put my shoes on.
"I'm not a post," he barks.

His dad said something and Ed added:
"And your ugly son."
"I'm going to tell Brooke what you said," I tease.
"I'm going to tell Brent," DeRay adds.
"No. No. NO. I don't mean them. I mean me."
As I pass Ed's bed at 5 AM, I ask, simply, 
"How are you?"
"Lonely," he replies.

"I loved the boat ride today," he says.
"It reminded me of the Volga River."
"Ed, you're lucky you like to think,"
I call to him as I'm out in the water
and he's "thinking" on the deck.
He can entertain himself for hours
sitting there thinking or hanging in the water thinking.
Most people become bored quickly
if they're not doing something every minute. 
They would rather do anything than think. 
It's his distinctive gift.
Whenever we go to Lake Powell,
the Ghosts of Lake Powell past haunt us
the moment we step into the cabin
of the boat:
Our older children Brent, Brooke, Jeanne,
and their spouses Jan and Elizabeth;
Shirley, Charles, Amy J., Carol, Grant Simons,
Cai and Suzanne, Jason, Lisa, David;
The Pugh siblings—Clare, Karen, Norm, Ron, Marilyn--
Matthew, Bonnie, Melanie, K'Leena,

and friends whose names we've forgotten;
and Brooke's gaggle of friends to celebrate his graduation
some of whom he didn't even know,
including two foreign exchange students—one from Spain and one from Germany.
We called the one from Germany when we were there.
I think Brooke traveled with her a little
when he went back after his mission.
Mariana, Trent, Russell, Kenn, Amy Butcher,
Jennifer, Shelly, Erika, Travis, Cassie,
Tena, Sepesi, Damien; Les, Michael, Brian, Christy, Ben, Raine
. . .The hikes, the swims, the games, the food, the visits. 
Fishing in the early days. Rainbow Bridge. 
. . .the hike from Cottonwood to the Rincon?
. . .the fierce winds that scared the livin' daylights out of us?
. . .the arches and bridges; crawdads and tadpoles
in the waterholes in the rocks; the catfish and carp?
. . .the canoe?
. . .the desert flowers?
As we arrive at midnight on Sunday night,
we say, "Let's send Amy and Bonnie
down to look for carts."
This is the first year we've come
without friends or family.
Just us. 

Amy, Ed, DeRay
After DeRay works on the engines for four or five hours,
we park in our favorite cove just off the main channel.
It was all stillness and calm. Quiet.
Are we the only people left on the earth?
No pressures, nothing to do but eat,
swim, read, visit, sleep and each afternoon
eat microwave buttery kettle popcorn
that Amy figured out how to cook on top of the stove.
Everything is arbitrary, discretionary.
In our own due time.
How long would one be content with doing nothing?
Lake Powell is
The ocean without the fearsome waves and undertow.
The beach without the crowds and noise.
Little squirrels and lizards and
bats; blooms, tamarisk (salt-cedar).
Home. The Red Hills of Kanab and the White Mountains of Orderville.

DeRay
Magnificent, awesome scenery and beauty unchallenged.
Of all these, we cherish still, calm, quiet most. Peace in its purest form.
While the wind howls, Amy moves downladder
(like downstairs, except it's a ladder).
The nylon cover is flapping wildly, driving us all crazy.
After she goes downladder, we take down the cover
that isn't covering anything and DeRay and I
stick it out on top deck until it starts to rain.
"It's raining," I say to DeRay
who is still in his sleeping bag.
"I know," he answers. If he knows,
why is he lying in bed?
Isn't he smart enough to come in out of the rain?
Or does he just know everything
whether or not he knows it?
Like most men.

Amy & Ed
If the wind hadn't been so fierce on Monday night,
instilling fear in our heart;
we might not have appreciated
the absolute calm and stillness of
Tuesday night.
It's hard to shed routine.
Even with no cares or responsibilities,
I still worry:
1) Will the toilet paper hold out?
2) Will we run out of paper towels?
3) Dishwashing soap?
4) Clorox?
5) Drinking water?
6) Will the holding tanks fill up?
7) Will the wind blow?
8) Will we be beached?
9) What if we need stitches?

Jeanette
The worst of times:
When you're full and can't look forward to eating.
When you're rested and don't need to sleep.
When you've just finished a book and don't have another one in hand.
When you're through exercising and need to do no more.
The best of times:
When you're hungry and it's summertime
with fresh vegetables and fruit galore.
When you're tired and you have a place to sleep.
When you're in the middle of a good book.
When you're triking or swimming or hiking or stretching.
When you are on a houseboat on Lake Powell.
As we travel home we were trying to think
of something fun to do to celebrate our
46th wedding anniversary the next Saturday.
DeRay suggested we could drive to Wendover
for breakfast buffet. Senior citizens only $6.
He, Ron, and Eddy had flown over there a week ago
and DeRay has yet to quit bragging about the good food.
We hadn't eaten since breakfast;
we had cleaned and packed the houseboat;
driven the boat upstream for three hours
and loaded everything on the carts
(BTW, it took 4 carts to get us on the boat—
and 4 carts to get us off.
Did we not consume any food?
Of course, we had three sacks of garbage
and our water and foodchest containers
take as much room full or empty,
except they were mostly full!)
and loaded the van.
We were trying to hold out until Hanksville
for Stan's Burgers and Malts.
When DeRay mentioned the breakfast buffet
in Wendover, absolutely starving at that moment,
it sounded wonderfully delicious.
However, after we stopped and gorged
on burgers, malts, and English chips,
it didn't sound like such a great idea.
As we drove on and the hours went by,
it began again to sound like a splendid plan!
Speaking of carts, the water at Lake Powell
is so low, even though they keep lowering
the parking lots, you still have to pull the carts
up an incline and the last third of the way,
the steepest part, is through deep sand.
As I was plugging along like a mule
pulling the heavy cart behind me,
Ed, walking by my side, kept saying,
"Do you love me, Mom?"
"DO MULES LOVE?" I finally shouted
when I could muster enough breath.
Plugging behind me, I don't know how
Amy, with her small frame, did it.
I see a parallel between snow skiing and Lake Powell.
I'm out of my element doing either;
afraid; anxious; inept; and when we are finally
in the car heading home, I think,
"I had such a good time.
I'm so thankful we survived!"
Home is highly overrated, however.
All I can think about, when I'm away,
is getting home.
I count the hours and the days.
When home, much as I love it,
I wonder what was the hurry?