Wednesday - Antelope Canyon and Lake Powell

Upon arriving in Page, Arizona, we miraculously gained one hour.  We checked into the hotel and in finally settling into the room, we glanced at the clock assuming it to read 11:00pm.  Somehow as if by magic, we were transported to the mystical world of 10:00pm. God bless Arizona for not participating in Daylight Saving Time. Astounded and dumbfounded, we had to call the front desk to verify the time.

This morning, we gave ourselves enough time to get ready for our first planned excursion which immediately turned into a panicked dash to grab as many powdered scrambled eggs and cold sausage in order to board the open-sided cattle chariot with rubber band shocks awaiting to escort us to Antelope Canyon. Prior to our twenty minute drive, we were warned by our Navajo guide to secure all loose items and if anything were to fall out, we will not be stopping to go back for it.  As our chariot squealed onto the main drag in Page, it became glaringly apparent that we ourselves were, in fact, loose items.

We debarked our special chariot to begin our guided tour.  As we and our Navajo guide soon discovered, we were probably the only English speaking individuals there. The already pungent aroma from our numerous European friends was only amplified by the narrow enclosures of the slot canyons. Slot canyons, as defined by Websters, are narrow canyons that are formed by the wear of water rushing through rock.  Judging by the two of us, our ten Navajo guides and about half the population of Europe and Asia, we we forced to act as human mortar to fill all the crevices of the slot canyon.  Despite all of the impeding arms, heads, hands, and body odor, we still managed to get some pretty decent pictures. 

After lunch, we had signed up for a half day tour of Lake Powell.  Now, being from St. Louis, we had overwhelming fear as we watched the temperature ratchet to over 100 degrees. At home, this means certain stifling death. Sweat, vomit, die.  In Page, well, it's a dry heat.  However, had we not had our water strapped to our backs with convenient rubbery straws leading directly into our mouths, there may have been another heat tragedy.  

Our guide, Dave, was an interesting story.  Upon graduating high school in New Jersey, he took a 3 week vacation to the area, and decided to never go back.  It's a fairytale story, really, Boy meets nature, Boy says FU to Jersey, Boy turns into a sinewy piece of leather giving kayak tours to fat, lazy Americans who have no purpose navigating aquatic vessels.

After waiting out 5 other groups of kayakers who were obviously not running on the same timeline laid out for us, we finally put into the water 1 hour late.  We had a small learning curve to figure out how to obtain forward momentum of the kayak, but we eventually figured out a rhythm.  Now Dave tried really hard to holler out directions, but he may not have realized how ambiguous his directions were.  "We're going to head over the left of that rock." "Dave! Are f'ing serious??? I'm not sure if you're are of this, but we are completely surrounded by rock!  We could easily paddle for 262 miles and still not be to the left of 'that rock!'" 

One of the highlights of our half day trip was that they were going to take us into the narrows of the canyons surrounding Lake Powell.  It was something that we were really excited about...until we finally began making the turns towards the narrows.  The rock formations becoming taller and more textured certainly provided a stellar distraction to the looming death that was floating in the water around us.  As the walls began to close in and more dead fish were floating in the water around us, we approached the narrows.  Excited, Julie began to paddle eagerly towards these narrows.  However, the water had taken a Disney villain turn and became more the texture of maple syrup mixed with hamster bedding shavings.  The wildlife in the narrows was surprising to say the least.  Apparently, this is where the elusive flip flop breeds, they were everywhere.  The impending sense of vomit came in waves as the sludge dripped from our oars to coat our bodies in a light layer.  Still we forged on, barely squishing through the openings to emerge at the other side which was even more gross than the beginning. At any rate, upon turning around we frantically raced to the open waters of the lake to cleanse ourselves of the mysterious goo.  With our kayaking adventure coming to a close we had one final feat, to paddle for what seemed like roughly 6 nautical miles across open water, dodging speedboats and keeping a watchful eye out for canyon sharks.

P.S. - If you ever find yourself at Ken's Old West in Page, AZ; be cautious of the beef ribs, they will flip over your Flintstone car.