Unscripted- Spring Break Lake Powell -2018- -
Lake Powell, straddling the border of Utah and Arizona, is already a surreal place. It is man-made, born from the damming of the Colorado River, yet it feels older than time. By 2018, the lake had been in a drought cycle for years, exposing white "bathtub rings" of stained rock. But Spring 2018 was different. The snowmelt from the Rockies had been vicious that year. The water was high. Canyons that had been dry for a decade suddenly became navigable channels.
Our flotilla launched out of Wahweap Marina in late March. The air temperature was a deceptive 65 degrees when we boarded the "Navajo Princess" (a rented 70-foot behemoth with a slide on the top deck). The mandate for the week was simple: Unscripted. No itineraries. No reservations. We had five days of fuel, two massive coolers of grilled meats, and a Bluetooth speaker that we vowed to keep alive via a rickety solar panel.
The "2018" crew was a mix of Arizona State students, Utah snowboarders, and a few brave souls from the East Coast who had never seen a slot canyon. We were the last generation to cross the spring break threshold without TikToks dictating our locations. We had a GoPro Hero 5 and terrible cell service. It was perfect. Unscripted- Spring Break Lake Powell -2018-
Lake Powell sits straddling the Colorado River through red canyon walls, its placid blue surface punctuated by houseboats and sea caves. In early spring the temperature hangs between cool mornings and warm afternoons — perfect for hiking and reckless boating without the peak-summer crowds. The friends rented a modest houseboat, a compact command center with a tiny galley, curtained sleeping berths and a rooftop deck that doubled as a lookout and suntrap.
The party scene on Lake Powell is unique. Unlike a city bar, the bass doesn't rattle windows; it rattles the canyons, bouncing off Navajo Sandstone and coming back to you three seconds later. Lake Powell, straddling the border of Utah and
On Thursday night, we tied all three houseboats together in a raft. We had a generator running string lights across the bows. Someone produced a guitar that had miraculously survived the journey in a dry bag. The playlist was peak 2018: Sicko Mode, This Is America, Africa by Weezer (the cover, which caused a debate), and way too much Mr. Brightside.
Around midnight, someone killed the generator. The silence was deafening. Then, the stars turned on. But Spring 2018 was different
Because there is zero light pollution in the middle of Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, the Milky Way looked like a crack in the universe. You could see the Andromeda Galaxy with the naked eye. We lay on the top deck sleeping bags, passing a bottle of Fireball, not talking. A shooting star crossed every thirty seconds. It felt scripted. It felt like the sky was putting on a show for us.
One of the fire fighters, a guy named Mike, pointed out a satellite moving slowly across the void. He said, "Look at that. There are people up there, right now, looking down at this desert. And we are looking up at them. We are the anomaly."
It was the kind of profound, drunk philosophy that only happens on Day 4 of a houseboat trip.