The young Navajo man froze for a moment and dealt with his fear.
Even all these years after the accident, looking at the vast expanse of cold lake water still left him frightened. When the
nightmarish idea arose that his boots might slip and that he could tumble down the pale sandstone and into the lake, he shoved
the thought to the back of his brain. But his palms had started to sweat. He took a deep breath and ordered himself to get
a grip, to calm down, to go in beauty.
His apprehension had begun years before, when Lake Powell was higher and he was smaller, just a boy. He had been walking along
the shoreline, looking for insects. Then he tripped on a rock and lost his balance. He could still taste his panic as the
icy, bottomless water enveloped him. He could still feel the iron grip of the terror that paralyzed him. Unable to keep his
head above the deadly lake, he sank, breathless, too scared to struggle.
Finally his brother’s strong arms pulled him back to life, to the surface where he could gasp for breath. After an eternity
they reached the dry safety of the shore.
He was only eight, but the experience changed him from the inside out. His brother wanted to teach him to swim, but he had none of it. He knew Lake Powell was a lurking, evil monster, ready to suck him into its frigid depths. He respected its power, and now, after decades, he could sometimes see its beauty. But only from afar.
