Lone Rock, Lake Powell. The water level is down 40 feet.

There’s always a day on every trip. The day we left Lee’s Ferry is that day. R left camp at 5am. He was in a hurry to get to Kanab, Utah to have a golf ball sized cyst on his back lanced at the Kane County Hospital. We left an hour later, hoping to get to the BLM office in Kanab in time for the lottery for a permit to hike The Wave. It wasn’t until we were approaching the Utah state line that it dawned upon us Utah is an hour ahead and we already missed the lottery. We hooked up with R at Honey’s Marketplace, where he happily informed us we were going to be stuck with him for at least 5 more days because he needed us to change his bandage twice a day. We then hit the BLM office for info and headed to our destination, the gravel pit by the Paria River BLM contact station. It didn’t sound sexy, but the two things it had going for it were a great spot for solar and good Verizon reception, or so we read on the Internets. Verizon reception is a must so I can stay in contact with work. No service is what my phone said. No service, no bueno. Sorry Amelia and R, we can’t stay here. So down the road we went to Lone Rock at Lake Powell.

It’s not fun feeling like a dumbass, but when you get your 4×4 Tundra and Airstream stuck in the sand, you are a dumbass. A lot goes through your mind when you are stuck in the sand. And none of the thoughts are real positive or ego boosting. Thank god for a Good Samaritan named Randy. He pulled our ass out of the predicament and we ended up camping next to him and his 1996 31-foot Airstream Classic Limited. Besides profusely thanking him for hours we figured the least we could do was buy him a 12 pack of PBR.

But this day wasn’t over. You should’ve seen us trying to level the Airstream; needless to say after rehitching twice, it was a true test of our marriage. Once we finally parked it and unhitched for the last time I had a beer, then a nap, woke up and the earth was miraculously back on its axis.

One more quick story, Lone Rock is in Utah, but only two miles from Arizona. As soon as you cross into Arizona there’s a gas station that has a great selection of real beer, not that watered done Utah stuff. There was this kid there manning the cash register. He’s originally from Orange County but spent 18 months in the Clairemont/Pacific Beach area before moving to Arizona. He was not impressed with his stay in San Diego. According to him PB means partially bums. MB: mostly bums. And OB: only bums. Of course we got a kick out of it and couldn’t wait to tell R.

This is what stuck in the sand looks like.

Randy pulling us out.

What a day.

Great evening colors.

Moonrise, the evening of the blood moon.

Beautiful!

Heading down into Water Holes slot.

Narrow passage.

Water Holes, I’m still amazed at the job the iPhone does.

That’s our 25 footer in the middle. To the right is Randy’s 31- foot 1996 Airstream Classic. To the left is Mike and Kelly’s 21-foot 1971 Airstream Land Yacht Globetrotter. There will be more about Mike and Kelly in the next blog post.

Another shot of the low water. We kayaked one day, hoping to explore the slot canyons. The water was too low, so no slot canyons to explore.

R.

Amelia wants to name the Airstream Opal.

The Queen of Lone Rock.