Weather: light cloud, mostly sunny & hot
I was up early, at 7.00. I first headed out down the road again, this time with my camera, in order to take a few photographs of the bridges and the canyon. I returned via the filling station shop in order to purchase something for breakfast, some orange juice and a cinnamon roll.
Rather than head east over the bridge immediately, I first took a short detour up to Lee's Ferry. There I found a large beach area, on which several large inflatable rafts were being prepared for the treacherous journey down-river, a journey likely to last several days and pass over a multitude of white-water rapids, but also to take in some of the most spectacular scenery the planet has to offer.
I returned to the main road and crossed Navajo Bridge, following the road to Page, a town of only 6000 inhabitants but one of the largest habitations in the region. The town dates back to the mid-1950s, when it was constructed to house workers for the Glen Canyon Dam, just outside the town on the Colorado. I headed first for the dam, which had a small Visitor Center just across the river, crossed by a bridge just in front of the dam.
Heading inside, I was told that a free guided tour was about to commence. I was eager to take this opportunity, but first had to return the the car to leave my camera bag behind, as for security reasons cameras are tolerated on the tour but bags are not.
A small group of us were led by an entertaining guide out on to the top of the dam, looking over the deep gorge of what remains of the once-magnificent Glen Canyon on one side, and on the other the tranquil waters of the immense Lake Powell, which formed over seventeen years following the completion of the dam in 1963 and extends far back along the course of the Colorado river and the San Juan, one of its major tributaries. The lake is named for the one-armed Civil War veteran who in 1869 led an expedition down the Green and Colorado rivers, the first detailed exploration of the many canyons of the region by white settlers.
A brief but ear-poppingly fast lift journey took us down to the base of the 210 metre dam and into the immense turbine hall, dominated by eight vast generators. When all are running, the station generates some 1300 megawatts of power which is distributed to nine southwestern states, but for much of the time only a handful run and at this time only three were in operation. The reason for this is not so much the fluctuating demand for electricity in the region as the desire to study wildlife in the Grand Canyon. Prior to construction of the dam, huge floods were a common occurrence in the canyon, the turbulent waters, coloured the brownish-red colour which gave the river its name, clearing debris from their path and continuing the process of erosion which had been in progress for some five million years to create the canyon. With the dam in place, however, these floods became a rarity, with profound effects upon wildlife in the canyon.
Wildlife experiments appeared to be quite common: further experiments involving fish and snails were in progress immediately below the immense concrete face of the dam.
I did ask the guide as to his views on what was lost by the dam's construction: a colossal network of incredibly varied side canyons and other rock formations, many of which were rich in archaelogical artifacts. One saving grace is that the immense Rainbow Bridge, the world's largest natural bridge, sited far back up one of the tributaries and sacred to the Native Americans, was not lost. Indeed the level of Lake Powell was limited so as not to inundate the bridge. The bridge is now accessible relatively easily from the water, whereas a journey by land was and still is almost impossible for all but the most dedicated walkers.
The guide's view was that while much may have been lost, the desert states of the USA require water and power, not to mention the protection against flooding offered by the construction of such large dams. Additionally the vast lakes created by the Hoover and Glen Canyon dams provide plenty of room for people to enjoy a wide variety of water sports or simply to explore the scenery of the region.
It was not yet lunchtime when I left, and I saw little reason to linger in Page, instead planning to press on towards Monument Valley and to stop for food on the way, though in retrospect this was probably a mistake. I left Page on state highway 98, entering the Navajo Indian reservation known as Navajo Nation, which spans four states and covers an area almost as large as Scotland. The relative poverty of the area struck me: the few habitations I saw all had a rather run-down air to them, while many of the local vehicles appeared elderly and polluting.
I stopped at the town of Kaibito, marked on my map, but found little there. I resigned myself to a lunch of a packaged sandwich purchased from the community's one shop, but had nowhere comfortable to eat it, a stationary car without the air-conditioning running being even hotter than outside.
Another hour and a half of driving took me into the vast plains leading up to Monument Valley. For many miles some of the incredible rock formations of the valley were visible, and I turned off to the Visitor Center.
Compared to typical National Park facilities, everything was a little basic: being on Navajo land the area is instead a Navajo tribal park. The views were spectacular, quite literally a landscape straight out of a Western since many films have been shot there over the years, notably John Ford's Stagecoach in 1938.
The spires, mesas and buttes of the landscape are all that remains of an ancient flat plateau, the remainder eroded away by weathering over millennia. Several of the most prominent features were visible from the Visitor Center area, with more in the inner part of the valley. This was reached along a road which was at first relatively well-maintained but which soon deteriorated into a dusty track full of potholes, a far cry from the smooth road surfaces of the National Parks. I did not want to risk the car to much of such road surfaces and so returned to the main car park, along one side of which was a row of wooden huts, each of which was occupied by people keen to sell tours on horseback or in four-wheel drive vehicles. I enquired about vehicle tours but the prices for a single person seemed excessively high for an hour-long tour. I decided instead to head on and find somewhere to stay for the night.
I continued into Utah to the next town, that of Mexican Hat, just beyond the boundary of the Navajo Nation on the San Juan river and named for a nearby rock which some claim resembles such a hat. I checked in at the Mexican Hat Lodge, having decided not to stay at the motel opposite which could only offer a room with no shower and appeared to be run by an elderly and rather vague gentleman.
I had dinner at the nearby San Juan Inn, down by the river, having salad followed by pork chops although I'd actually ordered a chicken dish. I strolled back up the road, again admiring the night sky, and watched part of the opening ceremony of the Sydney Olympics on television. Much had been made in Utah of the fact that the next Olympics would be much closer to home, the 2002 Winter Olympics being destined for Salt Lake City.