Weather: sunny or light cloud, hot
I got up at 7.30 after a night somewhat disturbed by the noise of the air-conditioning system of the rooms and the early morning departure of one or more coach parties.
I visited the nearby Walmart in search of something suitable for breakfast, but found nothing, and instead purchased a croissant and some juice from a Bashas' supermarket.
I left at 9.15 with the intention of visiting nearby Antelope Canyon, a short distance into the Navajo reservation along Highway 98. I turned off onto a road following the line of Antelope Creek, near the smoking towers of the Navajo generating station. While important in the Navajos' strive for self-sufficiency, it is a blot on the landscape for miles around and sufficient to be a significant source of pollution in the Grand Canyon. However I missed the nearby turnoff to Antelope Canyon and ended up heading right down to Antelope Point, a boating station on Lake Powell almost entirely deserted save for a park ranger to collect entrance fees (thankfully I had the National Parks Pass) and a few parked vehicles and boats.
I turned back towards the highway, and found the entrance to Antelope Canyon more easily this time, knowing it could be nothing other than the dirt track leading from an elderly and battered gateway just before the junction with the main road. This track led down to a large parking lot in front of a small hut. At this I paid a reasonable $5.00 entrance fee for the tribal park, and what initially seemed a slightly steep $12.50 for the obligatory ``guided tour''. This proved to consist of nothing more than a Navajo boy leading me the short distance over the rocks to the canyon entrance, then leaving me and going back to await his next customer.
This disappointment was soon forgotten, however, when I entered the canyon. Certainly some form of guide was necessary in order to locate the canyon entrance, for it could so easily be missed, being a narrow gap between the rocks, indeed there was barely room for me to find sufficient foothold for my walking boots. But a few steps further on, I found the first examples of the magnificence I had come to see.
The canyon is a very narrow example of a slot canyon, carved out by the infrequent but turbulent waters that flow when the rains come. The slot soon becomes many metres deep, yet never more than a few feet in width and in places barely wide enough for a person to pass through. The rock walls of the canyon form a series of elegant curves, with bright swirling colours illuminated by the narrow shaft of light entering from the top of the canyon.
The changing lighting patterns during the course of the day, together with the delicate contrasts, make the canyon a popular location with experienced photographers, and I encountered several as I made my way slowly through the canyon. Not having the benefit of a tripod myself, and using a slow film more suited to the bright desert sunlight, I was somewhat limited as to what photographs I could take, but nevertheless took a few pictures, carefully bracing myself against the rock walls to steady myself for the long exposures necessary. I was very pleased with the results I got back, far better than I had expected.
After about a quarter of a mile, I reached the point at which the tour ended, and a metal staircase took one back into the bright sunlight above the canyon, and I returned along the surface, following the deep chasm in the rockface which I had just been exploring, occasionally glancing down into the darkness of its depths. I passed several metal boxes alongside the canyon, which I eventually surmised must contain the rope ladders thrown down into the canyon in the event of an emergency.
Back near the carpark, I came to a stone monument, the top of which bore a simple but very moving steel plaque. This was erected in memory of eleven visitors to the canyon killed when a flash flood struck in August 1997, many of them younger than me. I could quite believe how difficult escape could be were a flash flood to strike, progress being slow at the best of times along the narrow passage of the canyon. Reading reports of the tragedy, it appears that conditions locally appeared perfect, with no sign of rain, and the flood was a result of a thunderstorm hours beforehand some distance upstream. Safety was tightened up considerably before the lower canyon was permitted to reopen; even then the section now open is only a small stretch of what one could previously visit.
I headed back to the car, and went across the Highway 98 to the car park for Upper Antelope Canyon. This section of the slot canyon is slightly wider, but some distance from the car park and one may only visit on organised jeep tours, at a further cost of $12.50. Wishing to push on to the Grand Canyon, I decided not to bother, though having subsequently read about it, it would be a place to go back to should I return to the region, perhaps with a tripod and a faster film in my camera.
I returned to Page for a quick lunch, but again found problems finding somewhere to eat. I opted for a quick lunch at a Kentucky Fried Chicken, which proved to be extremely disappointing. I then set off for the Grand Canyon, heading one last time onto the vast Navajo reservation for the journey south. I stopped briefly at The Gap to stretch my legs, a small habitation whose chief point of interest was a shop selling Navajo artifacts to passing tourists.
I turned off to the west at Cameron, following close to the course of the Little Colorado River, a tributary of the Colorado itself which flows northwest from its source up in the mountains of the Arizona/New Mexico border, itself forming a deep canyon as it traverses the vast expanse of the Colorado Plateau. I stopped briefly at one viewpoint, avoiding the large strategically-placed Navajo market, then continued to Desert View. From here, at 2300 metres the highest point of the South Rim, one can clearly see the main river.
A stone tower stands at this point, appearing externally to be built in the style of ancient native buildings, but in fact having been built in 1932 with a steel framework by the Fred Harvey Company, the dominant tourism company at many National Parks sites in the early part of the century, and who still run many of the lodges. I climbed the tower for the colossal entrance fee of one quarter, admiring both the internal decorations and the splendid view outside. Some rafters were just visible on the river below, and I spent some time watching them through binoculars.
I continued on to Grand Canyon Village, the most popular tourism destination at the canyon. This proved to be extremely busy, and I rapidly realised that I had no hope of getting a room at one of the lodges here. I fought my way out of the village to the town of Tusayan, six miles back from the canyon rim just outside the boundary of the National Park. I tried several hotels here, but all had either no rooms left or would cost upwards of $150 per night, not a sum I was prepared to pay.
In several places I saw mention of a ``Say no to Proposition 400'' campaign, which related to a referendum being held on plans by the National Parks to construct Canyon Forest Village, a new development near the canyon rim. It seemed all very well to campaign against this, but it was evident to me that more accommodation was required in the region, preferably with a shuttle service to the canyon rim rather than everyone taking their cars, but no doubt the businesses of Tusayan would be the places to lose out under such a scheme.
I turned to the Motel 6 book that I had taken from my room in Page that morning and consulted it. At the town of Williams, a town sixty miles south of the canyon rim close to Interstate 40, there were two reasonably priced motels in the chain. I called one of these and found they had vacancies, so immediately reserved a room. I then returned to Grand Canyon Village in the hope of getting some advice regarding my proposed walking trip the next day, feeling my plans would be somewhat affected by the need to drive for an hour each way, but found the Visitor Center to be closed. I called in at a shop for some supplies for the trip, and then left again, cursing the heavy traffic and the need to head for Williams.
I stopped for fuel in Tusayan, carefully inserting fifteen dollars worth of comparatively rather expensive fuel, but sufficient to last me the next day. However the man on the till insisted I only owed him ten dollars, despite my protestations, so I went away having obtained the fuel for $1.33/gallon instead of the marked $2.00 (typical prices in the region being $1.70-$1.80).
I turned up at Williams a little over an hour later, by which time it was now dark. My route into the town took me past the Mountainside Inn, in which I had stayed on my 1993 trip, an occasion on which we had also been planning to stay at the canyon rim but were forced back owing to lack of available accommodation (much to the annoyance of certain members of the party who wished to get up extraordinarily early for the sunrise). I was none too sure as to how to find the motel, but came across it easily enough, on the old Route 66 which forms the main road through the town.
I checked in, then went out in search of food. The receptionist had recommended a diner named Parkers just down the road, where I had a good meal of soup and steak. As I walked back, I saw a creature running along the pavement ahead -- I thought at first it was a slightly odd cat but then realised that it was in fact a skunk. Quite what it was hoping to find in this urban environment, I don't know. It disappeared off to the side and I returned to my room, sorting a few things out for the next day before having a reasonably early night.