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Sailing | Christopher Cross |
Lake Powell Remembrances Larry J. Gordon July 2005
Living in the
arid Southwest, we not only anticipate each and every outing on
beautiful, 196-mile long Lake Powell, Each trip provides plentiful material for a story.
I vividly
remember the Lake when it was so still the towering sandstone walls
blended effortlessly into the water, I recall the Lake by bright moonlight with the numerous buttes casting long shadows into the surrounding bays; I recollect the still of the night being broken by the splashing of ravenous bass in pursuit of their prey; I dream about the many miles I have skied or towed a skier over the placid waters of some remote side canyon; I am again relaxed thinking of boat camping by a pristine lagoon so isolated that mechanical problems were to be feared;
I am again
enthralled by the thought of observing two teen-agers swimming the
196-mile length of the main channel
I am rudely
awakened from reverie thinking of a lunker breaking the leader I am again hungered by the thought of enjoying charcoaled steaks on a flat rock with our boat tethered nearby; I am excited again by the thought of late afternoon winds scattering our canopy and camping equipment;
I am
retrospective about the afternoons spent tied in the shade of a
cliff I am stimulated by the thought of diving from my sleeping bag into the still, waiting waters on warm summer mornings; I am again enraptured by the memories of awesome Rainbow Bridge; I agonize thinking of the ones that got away and the trips that never afforded a fish; Retrospection makes the miles of smooth cruising seem like yesterday;
I hunger for
another steak like the ones I charcoaled beneath a small camp table
in a rainstorm,
I am still
frustrated about the time the engine fan belt broke leaving us dead
in the water for hours
I am again
angered by those few thoughtless boaters who disregarded boating
safety rules
I retain the
image of hundreds of small fish darting for food scraps around our
boat I am again scared witless remembering a storm so severe that our propeller frequently whirled in the air; and,
In early spring,
late spring, summer and fall my idle thoughts are these,
� click photo to enlarge �
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