This blog post is about a celestial event and the journey to catch it. We have actually been quite spoiled in recent years with regard solar eclipses on our continent. August 2017's total solar eclipse cast a coast-to-coast shadow across America. Another total eclipse in 2024 will sweep from Texas to Maine. For context, the most recent solar eclipse to cross the American mainland before 2017 happened in 1994. The next one after 2024 won't occur for another 2 decades. So they're much more rare than recent history would suggest.
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| The 2023 solar eclipse on Lake Powell |
October 2023 brought an annular solar eclipse that traversed the western U.S. from Oregon through Texas. Unlike a total eclipse, during an annular eclipse the moon is not close enough to completely block the sun. The 2023 annular eclipse, for example, achieved a little more than 90% coverage at the center of its path. Its inability to fully hide the sun makes it feel more similar to a typical clear day than a total eclipse. That last 10%--even 1%--really does make a night-and-day difference.
But where the 2023 annular eclipse fell short in solar coverage, it compensated with its earthly path over otherworldly terrain. Fantastical places like Crater Lake and Abert Rim in Oregon, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef and Bryce Canyon in Utah, Monument Valley in Arizona, and Shiprock in New Mexico all found themselves under the bullseye of its shadow. So even if the October 2023 eclipse didn't turn day into dark, it was a great excuse to visit one of the landmarks under its arc.
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| Path of the October 2023 Annular Eclipse [image: nasa.gov] |
For stand-up-paddle afficionados, particularly those in Colorado, Lake Powell seemed like a perfect place to experience a celestial event while entertaining a pastime of passion. So that was our plan--it had been for several years, in fact.
The destination: Bullfrog
As it turned out, the eclipse was to occur on a Saturday. And to add to the convenience, Saturday October 14 was right in the middle of a Thursday-through-Monday fall break on the school calendar. With a five day weekend, our tentative plan was to travel to Utah and set up a camp at Stanton Creek (near Bullfrog) on Thursday. We would paddle around on the lake Friday; watch the eclipse from the water Saturday morning, head out Saturday afternoon with a detour to Goblin Valley or Little Wildhorse Canyon, and spend Sunday and Monday in the wine country of Palisade, Colorado. The plan seemed reasonable, and even the mid-October weather forecast was looking optimistic.
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| Lake Powell: right under the eclipse path |
But as the eclipse week drew near, October had become quite busy. Work, school, social activities and an unexpected Moab trip had all found ways to interject themselves into an already crowded month. When the fall break rolled around, our shared sense was more exhaustion than ambition. Still, even though my family had cooled on the idea of an expedition to middle-of-nowhere Utah, they insisted that it not deter me. In fact, they convinced me to follow through with the idea: "It will be good for you". "Take Rey SkyRocker with you...she'll love it". Okay...arm twisted...
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| Rey SkyRocker likes an adventure |
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| Sun, moon and water... seems like it has potential! |
The revised destination
Since this excursion was just going to be me and Rey, there was opportunity to make it more wild. The Stanton Creek / Goblin Valley / Palisade plan, while very exciting, could always be tabled until a more accommodating time. So what were the other possibilities? With no boat and limited time, it would have to be somewhere fairly close to highways 95 or 276 on the north part of the lake...
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| North Lake Powell...one of these places [maps.google.com] |
Farley Canyon?
Farley and White Canyon seemed intriguing but the jeep road to get there seemed a little remote, and maybe a tad risky in the event of an automotive issue. And Farley Canyon, which bends southwest and westward, did not seem well aligned with the southeastern skies where the eclipse would occur.
Halls Crossing?
The Halls Crossing Area, while further away, also seemed like it should be on the table. In fact, an added bonus of the Halls Area was that it would be in the Navajo Sandstone region of the lake. The narrow, smooth-walled finger canyons in the tan-colored slickrock would be more dramatic than the broader, rocky, red canyons at Farley. So far, the Halls area seemed viable, but the next step would be finding a specific destination with feasible logistics.
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| Farley Canyon? Not this time... |
Lost Eden?
Lost Eden Canyon is one of the three wakeless canyons of Powell, and is fairly close to the Halls boat ramp. We hadn't been to Lost Eden yet, and it had been on our wishlist. It is narrow with towering vertical walls and looks like a paddleboarder's paradise. The biggest issue with a paddle to lost Eden is that it would require crossing the main channel of the Lake in a high-traffic area on a Saturday. Not knowing exactly what to expect with boat traffic, paddling with a dog on board, and having to return across the channel during the busiest part of the day made this idea seem dicey. Furthermore, Lost Eden's northeast-to-southwest orientation and high walls create a lot of morning shadows in the low-angle October sun--not an ideal situation for viewing an eclipse.
Moqui?
Two other principal side canyons extend eastward from the lake in the vicinity of Halls--Moqui Canyon to the north and Lake Canyon to the south. Both canyons require several miles of paddling along the main channel to access through their confluences, but both wind within two miles of Highway 276 as the raven flies. Moqui Canyon is spectacular and deep. Its towering south rim is hundreds of feet high and probably impassable. Even its finger canyons are guarded by headwalls or pour-offs.
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| The Navajo Sandstone region of Glen Canyon |
Figured it out...Lake Canyon!
Lake Canyon, on the other hand, is in a shallower part of the stratum. Lake Canyon's shoreline pools much closer to the top of the formation. The higher cliffs in the western part of the canyon gradually descend to gentler, more rounded terrain that in the east. There are still plenty of cliffs and vertical canyon walls to be found, but there are also rim-to shoreline passages on slickrock fins that ramp down. For these reasons, Lake Canyon has been on our radar for awhile as a place to possibly explore. As a bonus, Lake Canyon's prominent southern finger has southeasterly orientation--very well aligned with the October 14 eclipse.
The biggest challenge with Lake Canyon was that there was no established route to the lake. In fact, there was no guarantee of finding any passable route to the lake. Topographic maps and satellite imagery suggest the potential for an overland path to the water. But as amazing navigational tools as they are, they're not sensitive enough to pick up the subtleties that can make or break a route--especially in canyon county. So selecting Lake Canyon as the destination came with the caveat of possibly not making it all the way to the water. Still, a clear forecast and the guarantee of a celestial event would be a great consolation prize if actual paddleboarding proved too elusive.
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| Seems as good a place as any [image: google maps] |
The Plan
With Lake Canyon selected as the destination, the next step was to assemble a game plan! After examination of the map, Lake's southern side canyon seemed like the ideal orientation and topography for experiencing the eclipse. The side canyon was about 0.6 miles east of the intended put-in location, so that should be feasible within the morning's time window.
Friday, 10/13, 2023
Rey SkyRocker and I departed from our Mile High home Friday morning, the day before the eclipse. Our destination was Halls Crossing, Utah (a nice, leisurely 8-hour drive). The Colorado leg of the trip flew by. We stopped in Fruita to get a national parks pass from the Colorado National Monument, as well as some fuel and food.
From this point on, we made it a point to gas up at every opportunity. Having been in rural Wyoming for the 2017 eclipse (possibly the only day its population ever topped a million), we understood how a cosmic event in a sparsely populated region can overwhelm services. But this time we had no issue. We even stopped at the lone station in Hanksville to top off and could only fit in a couple gallons. In fact, all of the gas pumps had single digit dollar sales; it seemed every other traveler had the same strategy that we did.
We drove another couple hours under stunning cliffs and lengthening shadows. Shortly after cresting the Clay Hills Divide, we could see down the broad, sloping syncline that cradles the Colorado River. This would be a perfect place for us to camp. The rosy rolling slickrock and pink sand peppered with pinon felt classically Utah. And we could even see the lake! We took 20 minutes to play with the drone before getting to work on all the preparations for the next morning: pack, pump, hose, food, water, PFDs, batteries, electronics, dry bags, etc. After the sun set it got dark quickly because there was no moon. Of course the moon wasn't out--it was running a futile race away from a sun which would overtake it in 15 short hours.
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| UT-95 and the Hite Bridge |
Now, to plan out the next day's logistics:
The eclipse's annularity would begin at 10:30 am. The overland route to the lake would be 1 mile of easy hiking, then 3/4 of a mile through slower, rougher terrain...so maybe 20 minutes and another 25. We would need 20-25 minutes to inflate, organize gear and shove off. We would then need another 15 minutes to paddle to the South Fork side canyon. It would also be good to have 20 minutes or so to tour the canyon and explore how its meanders and coves interacted with the sun angle. Then throw on another 30 minutes for cushion. So 10:30 minus (20+25+25+15+20+30) = an 8:15 departure from the highway. That seemed reasonable...a dawnish or slightly pre-dawn start from our camp should work out just fine...
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| Drone's eye view of a great BLM camp spot |
Saturday, 10/14, 2023: How the day actually unfolded
As black nighttime sky gave way to a hint of blue on the eastern horizon, that was our cue to get moving. The desert dawn definitely had an October chill, but it wouldn't last very long once the sun came up. One last check of the day's weather forecast predicted a high in the mid-seventies and single digit wind speeds. Couldn't ask for anything better! Our 12-hour camp was a quick 20 minutes to pack-up and we were ready to go. But first, a critical pack and preparation check had to be done. PFD? Check. Canine PFD? Check. Pump, hose, .... Phone? Battery? Protector? Food? Dog food? Water? Check. Check. Check. Now just eat some food and we're good to go!
07:17
The adventure was underway, and we were on the clock! The 10 minute drive to the start point was an opportune time to east some food. Breakfast before a big undertaking is usually a pretty joyless meal. It's all about calories, whether you're hungry or not. I'm not even hungry! Doesn't matter--eat more food, and then some more. You know you'll need every last bit of it later...It's entirely transactional.
The start point was easier to pick out on google maps than it was from Route 276. But after passing and doubling back a couple times, a utility carsonite post proved to be a great marker of the abandoned road. The road shoulder was weedy; this clearly wasn't a popular place to park a vehicle. But this was our route, so we gathered our gear and set off.
08:25
The sun was out, but it was still very low. The wash bottoms were still shrouded in long shadows. The temps were still cool, but perfect for some physical activity. One pleasant surprise was the full-bar cell service in this remote, nameless location. There must have been a good sight line to a tower near the airport or the marina. This was great, because I could continue sending real-time text message updates back home...at least for the time being.
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| Morning sun in canyon country |
The first mile was pretty featureless walking, but with the intriguing yet intimidating grandeur of Glen Canyon's ruggedness beckoning ahead. There was actually a surprising prevalence of thorns in this part of the desert. Fortunately, they weren't especially sharp. The ones that made it into my Keen shoes broke apart quickly and Rey SkyRocker didn't seem to bothered by them. After 20 minutes, we had reached the rim of the wash and it was time to start dropping down toward the canyon.
08:52
Now things were starting to get more serious. The top stratum of wash's rim was ledgy and it didn't afford an easy direct line from our location. It wasn't hard to find a reasonable path through the steep section, but this was a reminder that the terrain from here on out would be complex, and that sound judgement would be a necessity. Once below the rim, the wash opened up into a beautiful slickrock gully. It was gently rolling and easily traversible... reminiscent of Moab's Bartlett Wash or Big Mesa. The wash afforded another quarter mile or so of leisurely travel before narrowing into a broad slot, and then a narrow slot.
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| Slickrock wonderland. Trying to get to here... |
This is where we encountered our first impasse. The wash dropped 5 feet over a ledge, but with a 3 foot boulder (in)conveniently lodged 2 feet above the passage. It left an opening that was too small to sneak under, but too high to comfortably climb over and drop down. The spot was narrow enough to chimney down--or back up--and a canyoneer wouldn't have any trouble getting through. But we weren't canyoneers; we were a SUP-packer and a dog. This was no good. We had to turn around.
We collected ourselves and trekked back up the wash. After 100 yards or so, the slot began to yawn open and the surrounding fins became hikeable. This seemed like a good time to scrutinize the iPhone screenshots of the area's satellite imagery. The fins to the east looked like they might have hit-or-miss passage around segments of the wash. The question would be if the ends of the fins were gentle enough to traverse, or if they rolled off into a steep drop. These details weren't discernible from the satellite imagery, so the only way to find out would be to ascend and traverse the fin.
09:05
The fin turned out to be a legitimate bypass! It allowed high-road passage high above slot's obstruction then ramped down at a hikeable pitch to deposit us right back into the wash bottom. So we continued further. After another 50 yards we encountered another impediment. A succession of three large potholes, 6 to 8 feet deep and flanked by concave rims, stopped us in our tracks once again. There was no way that we were getting past this obstacle, so we turned back and found the next closest fin to hopefully find another bypass. Once again, the adjacent, paralleling fins provided passage above the wash's obstructions. Unfortunately, this fin sloped down much more steeply than the previous.
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| Slot canyon getting rougher |
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| The fin bypassing the first obstacle |
09:14
The slickrock ramp could maybe be scrambled, but it was steep and dusted with slippery sand. A pack and a dog were definitely out of the question. We looked for other ways down but none were to be found. And we were running out of time--we only had an hour to reach the lake, inflate, and paddle to our destination. The situation was even more agonizing because we were SO close! We were clearly below the reservoir's high water mark, as evidenced by the quagga mussel shells caked onto the canyon walls around us. And accordingly to our mapping, it looked like the water's edge was only a couple bends out of view, just a hundred feet or so down the gravelly wash bottom past the end of the slickrock ramp. But since this ramp didn't afford safe or reasonable passage, it didn't matter how close the water was for a crow. For us, if was just as far away as when we started.
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| The impassible potholes in the wash |
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| No easy path down this ramp. The water's edge is just around the corner and the lake's bathtub ring is apparent |
09:35
Rey SkyRocker gave me a look of inevitability as to say, "Dude! It's not happening..." Rey was right. Not only were we not going to make it to the water, but if we didn't get out of this deeply inset, shady fissure, we were going to miss the eclipse entirely! OK...new mission: we need to ditch this idea of getting on the lake and focus all of our efforts to GTFO of this ravine.
So once again we trekked up the fins--this time more steeply--to gentler terrain. Once out in the open (and into sunlight), it was time to concede defeat and assess a Plan B. Even if we couldn't get on the lake, it would still be nice to at least see it--even if it was from the rim. Judging from our current view of the surrounding terrain, in comparison to the satellite imagery, it seemed like the best way to reach an overlook would be to seek a peninsula instead of a slot.
When travelling in rugged terrain, sometimes more difficult is easier--meaning sometimes it's worth gaining, losing or re-gaining a lot of elevation to get from point A to point B. We were ready for the smoothest passage across the slickrock--which was just below the mesa top. So we marched all the way back up.
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| Redemption: First glimpse of the water! (It's down there somewhere...) |
Once out of the depths of the wash, the vista really opened up. Even though the water itself wasn't visible, the rims of Lake Canyon were unmistakable a quarter mile or so to the south. The terrain up here was much mellower and it looked like we could probably find easy passage over slickrock to at least a good view of the canyon. After a few minutes, we crested a modest rise and got our first peek at the lake!
09:52
We bee-lined down the open, gently sloping slickrock toward the lake. It looked like the rim would get us pretty close to the water...certainly an adequate spot for viewing the eclipse. As we got closer, it appeared that the slickrock might ramp right down to the water--with no intervening cliffs. Sure enough, the gently dipping slickrock led to a broad lakeside bench where a houseboat had anchored. This bench was right at the junction of the south and main forks of Lake Canyon and it would be the perfect place for us to finally get onto the water!
09:59
It was 9.59 and we had finally reached the lake. We were behind schedule, but we were also much closer to our intended destination than if we had launched from the North Wash. The next 20 minutes would require extreme focus to inflate, get our gear loaded, and shove off without mishap. Place pack where it won't roll into the water--unroll SUP--unstrap pump--screw on hose--close valve--check valve--check valve--start pumping--stage 2--stage 3--arms burning!--assemble paddle--put PFD on dog--put PFD on self--attach fins--set SUP in water--strap pack--strap water bottle--put dog on SUP--. And finally, find a way to crawl onto SUP from sloping sandstone without slipping on the slimy, moss-covered rock beneath the water...
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| Finally at the water! Clock is ticking... |
10:16
Once we were both situated on the board with all gear secured, we made a bee line toward mouth of the South Fork canyon. The vertical cliffs that guarded its entry and its winding path beyond added to the south canyon's enchantment. After paddling around a couple meanders, we were fully surrounded by the deep blue waters and arching sandstone cliffs that define Lake Powell. There was no need to float any further; this would be a sublime place to experience the solar eclipse.
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| The beautiful south fork of Lake Canyon |
The partial phase of the eclipse had actually been ongoing for the last 90 minutes in a crescendo to its four-minute period of annularity. During this time, between 10:28 and 10:32 am, the moon would appear as a black circle entirely within the circumference of the sun. After those 4 minutes, the moon would cross the outer edge of the sun and continue 90 more minutes as a partial eclipse until two bodies were no longer in alignment with the Earth. The annular eclipse is more colorfully known as a "ring of fire" eclipse, named after the outer fringe of the sun that peeks around the moon.
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| Sun, Moon and SUP--in perfect alignment (10:31 am) |
Now that we had finally gotten to the right place at the right time, the ring-of-fire eclipse would be incredible to see. Capturing the moment, however, would be a dicier proposition. Unlike a total eclipse, which completely blocks the sun, the annular eclipse maxes out at 90+% coverage. The fraction of direct sunlight that gets through is still blinding to both the eye and the camera lens. It might be possible to photograph it through a screen, like on solar eclipse sunglasses. But the sun and moon are actually quite small when viewed through a camera lens, and any chance of a decent photograph would require good resolution and a steady hand. Still, there might be ways to capture the eclipse indirectly, like through reflection or projection.
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| Solar eclipse (10:27 am) |
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| Eclipse reflection zoom |
10:25
The south fork of Lake Canyon turned out to be perfect. The water was still, no one else was in the canyon, and most importantly it had great alignment with the low-ish October sun. The canyon walls undulated between steep, vertical, and overhanging, and it was easy to find sun, shade, or the fine line that separates the two. The sunlight already had a strange tint from being heavily obscured, and the air temperature had cooled from being deprived of radiant energy.
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| Solar eclipse reflection (10:36 am) The moon has flipped to the other side! |
We just floated on the board--a portable island on a ribbon of water--and absorbed the surroundings that immersed us. The only means of ascertaining the eclipse's annularity was a set of solar glasses. There were no ring-of-fire projections or refractions to be found on the water or the canyon walls. Still, there were mesmerizing reflections of gently rippling waves on the shaded undersides of cliff alcoves. Before long those four minutes had transpired. The celestial alignment that we came all this way to find had just graced us with its presence and now it was moving on.
10:53
With the expedition's apex in the rear view mirror, we were now free to explore this magical place without schedule or agenda. We drifted further up the side canyon through an enchanting grove of drowned cottonwoods. At the end we found a convenient little beach--shoehorned against the canyon wall--to take a break and enjoy our respective lunches of trail snacks and dog food. After 50 minutes or so of taking in our surroundings and pondering wtf we had done with our morning, we loaded up and shoved off.
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| Drowned trees in Lake Canyon's South Fork |
11:20
Paddling back through the south fork was once again surreal. Every meander, every sandstone alcove, every canyon skyline mirrored on the water begged to be captured in a photograph. In retrospect, the dozens of iPhone pictures that we took only felt like a handful. Another unexpected delight of the float back was the recurring passage from light side to dark side and back again. The south canyon's alignment with the late morning sun created alternating portals between warm sunlight and cool shadows.
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| Another quaint beach on Lake Canyon's main stem |
12:08
Before too long we found ourselves back at the confluence where we had put in. It was still morning, so we turned eastward into Lake Canyon's main fork. This canyon was wider and more sweeping than its southern fork. We took ourselves on a leisurely tour of upper Lake Canyon through beautiful, glassy waters. The sun was warmer now, higher up in the sky and without the moon to intercept its rays. After exploring the upper forks of Lake Canyon, we landed on another inviting beach to prolong our time beneath the sun-soaked cliffs.
12:58
By the time we dragged ourselves off the beach, boat traffic in the canyon had picked up and the waters were becoming choppy. That was our cue to paddle back and pack up. Even though only a few boats had ventured into the canyon, each wake that passed would rebound back and forth off the sandstone walls for several minutes. 15 minutes later, we were back to our start point at the junction with the south fork.
13:25
We pulled up on the shore and started unstrapping our gear. Clean-Drain-Dry-Deflate-Roll-Pack-Snack-Hydrate. We even got to do a little re-socializing back into civilization with some friendly folks from the houseboat that was anchored on the bench. And then we retraced our steps--onto the slickrock ramp and up toward the desert.
13:45
After 20 minutes, we were over the crest and back into the North Wash ascending toward highway 276. From the top of the slickrock strata, we could even pick out the road and our vehicle as a shiny reflection in the sun. It was still a barren, thorny mile away, but the car was a welcome beacon to remind us that we were still on-course in this wild, remote desert.
14:42
Back to the road...we made it! Somehow we had survived our desert adventure, and had even succeeded in getting on the water to SUP-ify the eclipse experience. Instead of stopping at our previous night's camp, we continued as far as we could comfortably make it, with the option of camping wherever we ended up. Eight hours later, that turned out to be home.
Lens Flare? What's that?
In the following days, after looking through all the photos that I had snapped, we noticed that some of them had a little green blip with a non-concentric void. It resembled the sun's silhouette during the eclipse. After doing a little internet sleuthing, we learned that the blemishes were an effect called lens flare. It's a phenomenon where an excessively bright light source creates extra reflections on the camera lens, sometimes mimicking the shape of the light source. In our case, we had a whole collection of different incidental images of the solar eclipse. I had no idea they were being captured when taking the photos. It wasn't anything we could have planned, but through dumb luck we somehow managed to memorialize the most phenomenal feature of this fantastical sun-chasing SUP adventure.
Next solar eclipse: April 8, 2024...
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