Lake Powell Houseboat Vacations (September 5 2021)

Lake Powell Houseboat Vacations

By Kerry Soper

(Published in Utah Life Magazine, September 2021)

I’ve always envied those Utahns who can afford yearly trips to Lake Powell for a week on a giant houseboat. It seems like the ultimate vacation: red rock country, water sports, basking in the sun, and camping in comfortable style. 

My brother in law felt the same way for years, dreaming about doing that kind of trip with his family someday. Here’s his story—in his own words—of how he temporarily achieved that goal... sort of.

“Several years ago, my wife and I and our fours kids moved back to Utah after living for a long time in Texas. Out of the blue one day we were invited by some friends to spend a week on one of those fancy houseboats at Lake Powell. 

In high school, growing up in Utah, I had heard about these kinds of trips from some of my friends, but had never experienced one first-hand. In my adult life it didn’t happen either because my wife and tended to go on boring, penny-pinching vacations. So you can imagine how stoked we were to be invited to enjoy this kind of week-long, over-the-top party cruise. 

Right before the vacation started, however, we encountered a small glitch: our friends would be arriving a day late. No problem, we all thought; this just meant it would be up to my wife and I to locate the houseboat and get settled in. 

So on the first day, we drove five-hours from our home in Heber Valley, arrived at the dock at Lake Powell in the late afternoon, and then followed the directions to the “slip number” which indicated where the boat was docked. When we found the watercraft, we were blown away by what we saw—it surpassed our expectations: massive jet skis strapped to the sides; a twisting water slide; an on-board hot tub; disco lights; and a fully stocked kitchen. 

Having been instructed to make ourselves at home, we were a bit tentative at first, wandering through all the rooms and laughing nervously as we tried out all the onboard luxuries (which included shag carpet, extra soft beds and huge showers). Gradually we grew more comfortable and adventurous, though, breaking out sodas, playing some games, and running around the deck. 

By 9 pm that night, we were enjoying a full-fledged nacho-fest with disco lights, thumping music and hot tubbing. At one point I’m pretty sure my kids coaxed me into doing some awkward, dad-style dance moves. 

When midnight rolled around, things even got a little crazy: our older kids were whooping it up on the top deck (at the encouragement of some of our more boisterous neighbors) while our youngest child was inside, clogging one of the toilets. Near 2 am, we all finally collapsed onto the oversized beds and slept like babies. 

My sweet, jet-skiing dreams were interrupted abruptly the following morning at 9 am, however, by the persistent buzzing of my cellphone. In a diet coke haze with corn chips riding low in my belly, I groggily answered, “Hello?” 

It was my friend on the other end of the line; he asked, “Hey, where are you guys?” Assuming this question meant he was still in transit, or looking for the boat, I mumbled that we were already on site and jokingly apologized for consuming most of the food. When he didn’t respond immediately, I slurred, “What’s your ETA?” After another awkward pause, my friend responded with panic in his voice: “We’re already here waiting for you. You’re on the WRONG HOUSEBOAT!!” 

Dropping the phone without even bothering to hang up, I began running through the kitchen and bedrooms, flailing my arms wildly, yelling, “WE’RE ON THE WRONG BOAT! WE’RE ON THE WRONG BOAT!” Chaos ensued as everyone jumped out of beds and began stuffing clothes in suitcases, shoving half-empty bags of chips into cupboards, and sweeping empty Otter Pop packages under rugs. 

By this point, our friends—who were calling from just twenty yards away—had arrived to help. With a storm of bags flying overboard onto the dock, we set a world record for evacuating a watercraft. Minutes later, with everyone safely on-board the correct houseboat (which was much older and smaller and did not feature jet skis, disco lights or hot tubs), my friend hit the gas and we sped out of the harbor at a blistering 10 mph, everyone looking straight ahead, trying to act relaxed. 

The rest of the vacation was fun, of course, but I was deeply rattled by this experience. It took a full year before I could eat nachos again. And I have a recurring nightmare where I’m standing in a police line-up with my wife and kids, root beer stains on our t shirts and water dripping onto the floor from our time spent in the someone else’s hot tub.”