Be Admiral Of Your Own Houseboat

By Bernard Baumohl/Page, Ariz.

Just as we were setting out on the family vacation, the reality of what I'd done began to hit me. Six months earlier, in a burst of frustration over a long winter in New Jersey, I'd booked a houseboat on a lake somewhere in the Arizona wilderness. My cousin had taken a similar vacation and raved about it. Up to then, my nautical experience consisted of rowing a 12-ft. boat in New York City's Central Park. Awaiting us in Arizona, though, was not a modest little craft. Nope, I'd be piloting a 60-ft., 15-ton double-decker leviathan, dubbed the Admiral by the rental company because it was the largest model in its fleet. What had I been thinking? Our three kids were eager; my wife, game. But I was certain we'd end up as another tragic summer-boating statistic. Worse, a houseboating statistic.

Vacationing by houseboat was largely unheard of 30 years ago. But in the past decade, houseboat rentals have surged to the point where reservations are often booked a year in advance. At our destination of Lake Powell--a serpentine waterway straddling Arizona and Utah--fewer than two dozen houseboats were available for rent 30 years ago; today there are 400. One reason for their popularity is that houseboating offers a novel way to see some of the most spectacular scenery in the country. Plus, houseboats offer family and friends an opportunity to be under way while under one roof--or rather, deck.

Lake Powell is considered the mecca of houseboating, with its 1,960 miles of shoreline--longer than the entire West Coast--and 96 large canyons. The lake's breathtaking beauty has beckoned an increasing number of boaters, water skiers, fishermen, hikers and campers in recent years. This, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that it is located in one of the most remote areas of the Southwest. Its surrounding landscape is part of Glen Canyon, a beautiful but harsh area once referred to as "the place no one knew."

To get there, we flew to Las Vegas and picked up a minivan for the 300-mile drive to Page, Ariz. Our girls--one nine and twins just shy of eight--took in the desolate landscape, with its red rock spires and stunning mesas, and fired off questions: "Are there dinosaur eggs buried here? Where are the Indians? Did you run over any rattlesnakes?" Gradually, the scenery turned flatter, less interesting and more relentless in its dull brown hues. Five hours passed, and then, without warning, a striking new color showed up on the horizon. An oasis of emerald blue-green water appeared like a mirage. We had reached Lake Powell.

Nothing could prepare a traveler for this sight. Imagine the Grand Canyon filled with water. Lake Powell's channels wind through amazing formations of brilliantly colored rocks, undulating canyons and soaring buttes. Along the shoreline are hundreds of hidden beaches that slope gently into the depths. All this is set against the backdrop of more than 1 million acres of pristine desert, much of it belonging to the Navajo Indian Reservation. Those who have experienced the vistas and serene waters of Lake Powell call it the crown jewel of the Southwest.

Surprisingly, little more than a generation ago this jewel didn't even exist. Lake Powell was not formed until after 1963, when the government built a huge dam in Glen Canyon to control the waters of the Colorado River and generate hydroelectric power for the growing Southwest. The project outraged environmentalists and archaeologists because it submerged ancient homes, wall writings and burial grounds of the ancient Puebloans. It took 17 years for the Colorado River and other tributaries to fill the gorges and turn Lake Powell into the nation's second largest man-made lake. (Only Lake Mead, which borders Arizona and Nevada, is bigger.)

We drove up to the Wahweap Lodge, a sleek-looking hotel by the water's edge, and eyed the 60 or so houseboats bobbing at anchor, ranging in size from the 36-ft. Standard class, which sleeps six, up to the 60-ft. Admiral, which can bed more than 10. All the rental boats and the five marinas scattered around the 186-mile-long lake are owned and operated by the Aramark Corp., the concessionaire for the National Park Service. Before turning in for the night, we had a little preparation to do. I gave the video on houseboat safety my undivided attention. And by the time I finished the paperwork--from insurance forms to preparing passenger-manifest records--I felt as if I'd bought the boat, not rented it.

The next morning, we marched down to the marina to meet Steve Ward, an Aramark official who, at 52, has spent more than 30 years on Lake Powell. "O.K., are you ready to see your Admiral houseboat?" he asked. Before any of us could respond, there it was--every bit as enormous as I had imagined it in my worst anxiety attack. Once we were inside, though, the angst turned to wonder. It looked more like a luxury two-story condo in Trump Tower than a boat. The Admiral came with a fully equipped kitchen, a large oval dining table that could comfortably seat eight, four private bedrooms, two bathrooms, central air conditioning, an outdoor barbecue grill, a large TV, VCR and CD player, and cockpit controls. That was just the lower deck. Up top was a second cockpit, a wet bar and another refrigerator. Our girls zeroed in on what counted most for them--a steep water slide right off the top deck.

The amenities didn't stop there. Exploring the lake solely from a houseboat is too slow and costly, since the Admiral cruises at just 10 m.p.h. and guzzles 1.5 gal. of gasoline per mile. Most renters add on a separate speedboat, to be towed astern. Practical houseboaters tend to moor the big vessel on a secluded beach and use the faster, more fuel-efficient powerboat for recreation and exploration.

It was time to don my captain's hat. Question was, Could I drive, er, pilot a two-story house? During the next several hours, Steve gave us a crash course on how to operate the high-powered generator, prime the engine, use the toilet, work the marine radio and anchor the boat. Under his watchful eye, I soon settled into the captain's chair to take over the wheel. And then, good news! It became obvious that driving a houseboat--even a 60-footer--is a snap. Its dual engines powered us so smoothly over the lake that we wouldn't have spilled a drop from a glass full of water.

Convinced that my wife and I were finally comfortable with steering and docking procedures, Steve said goodbye, jumped into his powerboat and quickly disappeared. My stomach sank a little when he left--and at least one daughter noticed. "It's easy, Dad," coaxed Nicole, one of the twins, then wisely advised, "Just don't sink it!"

We headed to our evening destination, a sandy beach hidden inside an alcove about 25 miles up the lake. It would take nearly three hours to get there. With the aid of a map and binoculars, we finally located an empty 80-ft.-wide crescent covered with soft, salmon-colored sand. No other boat or person was in sight. Once we had anchored, our daughters made a mad dash for the upper deck in what would be the first of innumerable shrieking rides down the slide into clear 80[degree] water. Though the bow of the boat was wedged securely on sand, the water off the stern was 12 ft. deep, ideal for swimming and diving.

In front of us, some three miles into the desert, stood Tower Butte, a massive rock formation rising 900 ft. and resembling Devil's Tower in Wyoming. Everywhere we looked we could see a stunning variety of sandstone canyons and buttes, some visible at more than 30 miles. As the sun descended, the canyon colors changed from burnt red to deep purple, then a mixture of lavender and pink.

Though we were enjoying the here and now, it was evident that the past is present everywhere at Lake Powell. The topography has been shaped by 2 billion years of geologic activity. Dinosaurs that walked the earth 150 million years ago have left tracks in Glen Canyon. Scattered along the lake's canyon walls are ancient petraglyphs chiseled by the Anasazi pueblo dwellers some 700 years ago. The lake is named after Major John Wesley Powell, a Civil War veteran who led the first scientific expedition into this region in 1869. Some of the rocks here still bear his initials. At night, I showed our girls the fluffy film of the Milky Way--light from stars that have been traveling through space for thousands of years. A meteor streaked across the sky with its ephemeral tail of fire.

Sleeping on the houseboat came surprisingly easily, with the soothing rhythm of the waves slapping softly against the hull. Morning arrived languidly on Lake Powell. The first glow of sunlight painted the canyons and cliffs with orange and red, and the still water turned brilliant blue. The gentlest of winds blew across the desert. It was a perfect start to the day, especially one in which our twin girls would turn eight.

Over the course of the next three days, we ventured into the desert, surveying exotic plants and animal life, always on the lookout for rattlesnakes, scorpions and coyotes. Afternoons were filled with trips in the speedboat, voyages of discovery. We would weave our way between narrow cliff walls a thousand feet high and explore canyons with such intriguing names as Forbidden Canyon, Dungeon Canyon and Hidden Passage. At every turn, we would find a surprise--a bizarre rock formation or a solid rock amphitheater suspended above us.

Lake Powell is so huge one can't possibly explore it all in a single visit--or 30, for that matter. People who have spent most of their life here admit that they find new side canyons and hidden alcoves each time they venture out. That may be why 60% of all houseboat renters return.

For us, houseboating opened up an entirely different world of family vacationing. We could sail as long as we wanted or dock in a secluded cove. We could study the geology by hugging the shoreline or hiking the land. We could swim--or build sand castles on the beach. For the children, boredom here was as alien a concept as homework.

Early one morning my wife and I awoke to find all three girls gone. Alarmed, we rushed to the forward deck and quickly spotted them on the beach in their pajamas, each holding a bucket. "We're looking for lizards. Wanna help?" Soon there were five of us on the beach in pajamas.

As it turned out, we did become a houseboating statistic: we all want to go back.