monuments of lava, standing in the river; low rocks mostly, but some of
them shafts more than a hundred feet high. Going on down, three or four
miles, we find them increasing in number. Great quantities of cooled
lava and many cinder cones are seen on either side; and then we come to
an abrupt cataract. Just over the fall, on the right wall, a cinder
cone, or extinct volcano, with a well-defined crater, stands on the very
brink of the canon. This, doubtless, is the one we saw two or three
days ago. From this volcano vast floods of lava have been poured into
the river, and a stream of the molten rock has run up the canon, three
or four miles, and down, we know not how far. Just where it poured over
the canon wall is the fall. The whole north side, as far as we can see,
is lined with the black basalt, and high up on the opposite wall are
patches of the same material, resting on the benches, and filling old
alcoves and caves, giving to the wall a spotted appearance.
The rocks are broken in two, along a line which here crosses the river,
and the beds, which we have seen coming down the canon for the last
thirty miles, have dropped eight hundred feet, on the lower side of the
line, forming what geologists call a fault. The volcanic cone stands
directly over the fissure thus formed. On the side of the river
opposite, mammoth springs burst out of this crevice, one or two hundred
feet above the river, pouring in a stream quite equal in volume to the
Colorado Chiquito.
This stream seems to be loaded with carbonate of lime, and the water,
evaporating, leaves an incrustation on the rocks; and this process has
been continued for a long time, for extensive deposits are noticed, in
which are basins, with bubbling springs. The water is salty.
We have to make a portage here, which is completed in about three hours,
and on we go.
We have no difficulty as we float along, and I am able to observe the
wonderful phenomena connected with this flood of lava. The canon was
doubtless filled to a height of twelve or fifteen hundred feet, perhaps
by more than one flood. This would dam the water back; and in cutting
through this great lava bed, a new channel has been formed, sometimes on
one side, sometimes on the other. The cooled lava, being of firmer
texture than the rocks of which the walls are composed, remains in some
places; in others a narrow channel has been cut, leaving a line of
basalt on either side. It is possible that the lava cooled faster on the
sides against the walls, and that the centre ran out; but of this we can
only conjecture. There are other places, where almost the whole of the
lava is gone, patches of it only being seen where it has caught on the
walls. As we float down, we can see that it ran out into side canons. In
some places this basalt has a fine, columnar structure, often in
concentric prisms, and masses of these concentric columns have
coalesced. In some places, where the flow occurred, the canon was
probably at about the same depth as it is now, for we can see where the
basalt has rolled out on the sands, and, what seems curious to me, the
sands are not melted or metamorphosed to any appreciable extent. In
places the bed of the river is of sandstone or limestone, in other
places of lava, showing that it has all been cut out again where the
sandstones and limestones appear; but there is a little yet left where
the bed is of lava.
What a conflict of water and fire there must have been here! Just
imagine a river of molten rock, running down into a river of melted
snow. What a seething and boiling of the waters; what clouds of steam
rolled into the heavens!
Thirty-five miles to-day. Hurrah!
_August 26._ The canon walls are steadily becoming higher as we advance.
They are still bold, and nearly vertical up to the terrace. We still see
evidence of the eruption discovered yesterday, but the thickness of the
basalt is decreasing, as we go down the stream; yet it has been
reinforced at points by streams that have come from volcanoes standing
on the terrace above, but which we cannot see from the river below.
Since we left the Colorado Chiquito, we have seen no evidences that the
tribe of Indians inhabiting the plateaus on either side ever come down
to the river; but about eleven o'clock to-day we discover an Indian
garden, at the foot of the wall on the right, just where a little
stream, with a narrow flood plain, comes down through a side canon.
Along the valley, the Indians have planted corn, using the water which
burst out in springs at the foot of the cliff for irrigation. The corn
is looking quite well, but is not sufficiently advanced to give us
roasting ears; but there are some nice green squashes. We carry ten or a
dozen of these on board our boats, and hurriedly leave, not willing to
be caught in the robbery, yet excusing ourselves by pleading our great
want. We run down a short distance to where we feel certain no Indians
can follow; and what a kettle of squash sauce we make! True, we have no
salt with which to season it, but it makes a fine addition to our
unleavened bread and coffee. Never was fruit so sweet as those stolen
squashes. After dinner we push on again, making fine time, finding many
rapids, but none so bad that we cannot run them with safety, and when we
stop, just at dusk, and foot up our reckoning, we find that; we have run
thirty-five miles again.
What a supper we make; unleavened bread, green squash sauce, and strong
coffee. We have been for a few days on half-rations, but we have no
stint of roast squash.
A few days like this, and we are out of prison.
_August 27._ This morning the river takes a more southerly direction.
The dip of the rocks is to the north, and we are rapidly running into
lower formations. Unless our course changes, we shall very soon run
again into the granite. This gives us some anxiety. Now and then the
river turns to the west, and excites hopes that are soon destroyed by
another turn to the south. About nine o'clock we come to the dreaded
rock. It is with no little misgiving that we see the river enter those
black, hard walls. At its very entrance we have to make a portage; then
we have to let down with lines past some ugly rocks. Then we run a mile
or two farther, and then the rapids below can be seen.
About eleven o'clock we come to a place where it seems much worse than
any we have yet met in all its course. A little creek comes down from
the left. We land first on the right, and clamber up over the granite
pinnacles for a mile or two, but can see no way by which we can let
down, and to run it would be sure destruction. After dinner we cross to
examine it on the left. High above the river we can walk along on the
top of the granite, which is broken off at the edge, and set with crags
and pinnacles, so that it is very difficult to get a view of the river
at all. In my eagerness to reach a point where I can see the roaring
fall below, I go too far on the wall, and can neither advance nor
retreat. I stand with one foot on a little projecting rock, and cling
with my hand fixed in a little crevice. Finding I am caught here,
suspended four hundred feet above the river, into which I should fall if
my footing fails, I call for help. The men come, and pass me a line, but
I cannot let go of the rock long enough to take hold of it. Then they
bring two or three of the largest oars. All this takes time which seems
very precious to me; but at last they arrive. The blade of one of the
oars is pushed into a little crevice in the rock beyond me, in such a
manner that they can hold me pressed against the wall. Then another is
fixed in such a way that I can step on it, and thus I am extricated.
Still another hour is spent in examining the river from this side, but
no good view of it is obtained, so now we return to the side that was
first examined, and the afternoon is spent in clambering among the crags
and pinnacles, and carefully scanning the river again. We find that the
lateral streams have washed boulders into the river, so as to form a dam
over which the water makes a broken fall of eighteen or twenty feet;
then there is a rapid, beset with rocks, for two or three hundred yards,
while, on the other side, points of the wall project into the river.
Then there is a second fall below; how great, we cannot tell. Then there
is a rapid, filled with huge rocks, for one or two hundred yards. At the
bottom of it, from the right wall, a great rock projects quite half-way
across the river. It has a sloping surface extending upstream, and the
water, coming down with all the momentum gained in the falls and rapids
above, rolls up this inclined plane many feet and tumbles over to the
left. I decide that it is possible to let down over the first fall, then
run near the right cliff to a point just above the second, where we can
pull out into a little chute, and, having run over that in safety, we
must pull with all our power across the stream, to avoid the great rock
below. On my return to the boat, I announce to the men that we are to
run it in the morning. Then we cross the river, and go down into camp
for the night on some rocks, in the mouth of the little side canon.
After supper Captain Howland asks to have a talk with me. We walk up the
little creek a short distance, and I soon find that his object is to
remonstrate against my determination to proceed. He thinks that we had
better abandon the river here. Talking with him, I learn that his
brother, William Dunn, and himself have determined to go no farther in
the boats. So we return to camp. Nothing is said to the other men.
For the last two days our course has not been plotted. I sit down and do
this now, for the purpose of finding where we are by dead reckoning. It
is a clear night, and I take out the sextant to make observations for
latitude, and find that the astronomic determination agrees very nearly
with that of the plot--quite as closely as might be expected, from a
meridian observation on a planet. In a direct line, we must be about
forty-five miles from the mouth of the Rio Virgen. If we can reach that
point, we know that there are settlements up that river about twenty
miles. This forty-five miles, in a direct line, will probably be eighty
or ninety in the meandering line of the river. But then we know that
there is comparatively open country for many miles about the mouth of
the Virgen, which is our point of destination.
As soon as I determine all this, I spread my plot on the sand, and wake
Howland, who is sleeping down by the river, and show him where I suppose
we are, and where several Mormon settlements are situated.
We have another short talk about the morrow, and he lies down again; but
for me there is no sleep. All night long I pace up and down a little
path, on a few yards of sand beach, along by the river. Is it wise to go
on? I go to the boats again, to look at our rations. I feel satisfied
that we can get over the danger immediately before us; what there may be
below I know not. From our outlook yesterday, on the cliffs, the canon
seemed to make another great bend to the south, and this, from our
experience heretofore, means more and higher granite walls. I am not
sure that we can climb out of the canon here, and, when at the top of
the wall, I know enough of the country to be certain that it is a desert
of rock and sand, between this and the nearest Mormon town, which, on
the most direct line, must be seventy-five miles away. True, the late
rains have been favourable to us, should we go out, for the
probabilities are that we shall find water still standing in holes, and,
at one time, I almost conclude to leave the river. But for years I have
been contemplating this trip. To leave the exploration unfinished, to
say that there is a part of the canon which I cannot explore, having
already almost accomplished it, is more than I am willing to
acknowledge, and I determine to go on.
I wake my brother and tell him of Howland's determination, and he
promises to stay with me; then I call up Hawkins, the cook, and he makes
a like promise; then Sumner, and Bradley, and Hall, and they all agree
to go on.
_August 28._ At last daybreak comes, and we have breakfast, without a
word being said about the future. The meal is as solemn as a funeral.
After breakfast I ask the three men if they still think it best to leave
us. The elder Howland thinks it is, and Dunn agrees with him. The
younger Howland tries to persuade them to go on with the party, failing
in which, he decides to go with his brother.
Then we cross the river. The small boat is very much disabled, and
unseaworthy. With the loss of hands, consequent on the departure of the
three men, we shall not be able to run all of the boats, so I decide to
leave my _Emma Dean_.
Two rifles and a shotgun are given to the men who are going out. I ask
them to help themselves to the rations, and take what they think to be a
fair share. This they refuse to do, saying they have no fear but what
they can get something to eat; but Billy, the cook, has a pan of
biscuits prepared for dinner, and these he leaves on a rock.
Before starting, we take our barometers, fossils, the minerals, and some
ammunition from the boat and leave them on the rocks. We are going over
this place as light as possible. The three men help us lift our boats
over a rock twenty-five or thirty feet high, and let them down again
over the first fall, and now we are all ready to start.
The last thing before leaving, I write a letter to my wife, and give it
to Howland. Sumner gives him his watch, directing that it be sent to his
sister, should he not be heard from again. The records of the expedition
have been kept in duplicate. One set of these is given to Howland, and
now we are ready. For the last, time, they entreat us not to go on, and
tell us that it is madness to set out in this place; that we can never
get safely through it; and, further, that the river turns again to the
south into the granite, and a few miles of such rapids and falls will
exhaust our entire stock of rations, and then it will be too late to
climb out. Some tears are shed; it is a rather solemn parting; each
party thinks the other is taking the dangerous course.
My old boat left, I go on board of the _Maid of the Canon_. The three
men climb a crag, that overhangs the river, to watch us off. The _Maid
of the Canon_ pushes out. We glide rapidly along the foot of the wall,
just grazing one great rock, then pull out a little into the chute of
the second fall, and plunge over it. The open compartment is filled when
we strike the first wave below, but we cut through it, and then the men
pull with all their power toward the left wall, and swing clear of the
dangerous rock below all right. We are scarcely a minute in running it,
and find that, although it looked bad from above, we have passed many
places that were worse.
The other boat follows with more difficulty. We land at the first
practicable point below and fire our guns as a signal to the men above
that we have come over in safety. Here we remain a couple of hours,
hoping that they will take the smaller boat and follow us. We are behind
a curve in the canon, and cannot see up to where we left them, and so we
wait until their coming seems hopeless, and push on.
And now we have a succession of rapids and falls until noon, all of
which we run in safety. Just after dinner we come to another bad place.
A little stream comes in from the left, and below there is a fall, and
still below another fall. Above, the river tumbles down, over and among
the rocks, in whirlpools and great waves, and the waters are lashed into
mad, white foam. We run along the left, above this, and soon see that we
cannot get down on this side, but it seems possible to let down on the
other. We pull up stream again for two or three hundred yards and cross.
Now there is a bed of basalt on this northern side of the canon with a
bold escarpment, that seems to be a hundred feet high. We can climb it,
and walk along its summit to a point where we are just at the head of
the fall. Here the basalt is broken down again, so it seems to us, and I
direct the men to take a line to the top of the cliff, and let the boats
down along the wall. One man remains in the boat, to keep her clear of
the rocks, and prevent her line from being caught on the projecting
angles. I climb the cliff, and pass along to a point just over the fall,
and descend by broken rocks, and find that the break of the fall is
above the break of the wall, so that we cannot land; and that still
below the river is very bad, find that there is no possibility of a
portage. Without waiting further to examine and determine what shall be
done, I hasten back to the top of the cliff, to stop the boats from
coming down. When I arrive I find the men have let one of them down to
the head of the fall. She is in swift water, and they are not able to
pull her back; nor are they able to go on with the line, as it is not
long enough to reach the higher part of the cliff, which is just before
them; so they take a bight around a crag. I send two men back for the
other line. The boat is in very swift water, and Bradley is standing in
the open compartment, holding out his oar to prevent her from striking
against the foot of the cliff. Now she shoots out into the stream, and
up as far as the line will permit, and then, wheeling, drives headlong
against the rock, then out and back again, now straining on the line,
now striking against the rock. As soon as the second line is brought, we
pass it down to him; but his attention is all taken up with his own
situation, and he does not see that we are passing the line to him. I
stand on a projecting rock, waving my hat to gain his attention, for my
voice is drowned by the roaring of the falls. Just at this moment, I see
him take his knife from its sheath, and step forward to cut the line. He
has evidently decided that it is better to go over with the boat as it
is, than to wait for her to be broken to pieces. As he leans over, the
boat sheers again into the stream, the stem-post breaks away, and she is
loose. With perfect composure Bradley seizes the great scull oar, places
it in the stern rowlock, and pulls with all his power (and he is an
athlete) to turn the bow of the boat downstream, for he wishes to go bow
down, rather than to drift broadside on. One, two strokes he makes, and
a third just as she goes over, and the boat is fairly turned, and she
goes down almost beyond our sight, though we are more than a hundred
feet above the river. Then she comes up again, on a great wave, and down
and up, then around behind some great rocks, and is lost in the mad,
white foam below. We stand frozen with fear, for we see no boat. Bradley
is gone, so it seems. But now, away below, we see something coming out
of the waves. It is evidently a boat. A moment more, and we see Bradley
standing on deck, swinging his hat to show that he is all right. But he
is in a whirlpool. We have the stem post of his boat attached to the
line. How badly she may be disabled we know not. I direct Sumner and
Powell to pass along the cliff, and see if they can reach him from
below. Rhodes, Hall, and myself run to the other boat, jump aboard, push
out, and away we go over the falls. A wave rolls over us, and our boat
is unmanageable. Another great wave strikes us, the boat rolls over, and
tumbles and tosses, I know not how. All I know is that Bradley is
picking us up. We soon have all right again, and row to the cliff, and
wait until Sumner and Powell can come. After a difficult climb they
reach us. We run two or three miles farther, and turn again to the
northwest, continuing until night, when we have run out of the granite
once more.
_August 29._ We start very early this morning. The river still
continues swift, but we have no serious difficulty, and at twelve
o'clock emerge from the Grand Canon of the Colorado.
We are in a valley now, and low mountains are seen in the distance,
coming to the river below. We recognize this as the Grand Wash.
A few years ago a party of Mormons set out from St. George, Utah, taking
with them a boat, and came down to the mouth of the Grand Wash, where
they divided, a portion of the party crossing the river to explore the
San Francisco Mountains. Three men--Hamblin, Miller, and Crosby--taking
the boat, went on down the river to Callville, landing a few miles below
the mouth of the Rio Virgen. We have their manuscript journal with us,
and so the stream is comparatively well known.
To-night we camp on the left bank in a mesquit thicket.
The relief from danger and the joy of success are great. When he who has
been chained by wounds to a hospital cot, until his canvas tent seems
like a dungeon cell, until the groans of those who lie about, tortured
with probe and knife, are piled up, a weight of horror on his ears that
he cannot throw off, cannot forget, and until the stench of festering
wounds and anaesthetic drugs has filled the air with its loathsome
burthen, at last goes into the open field, what a world he sees! How
beautiful the sky; how bright the sunshine; what "floods of delirious
music" pour from the throats of birds; how sweet the fragrance of earth
and tree, and blossom! The first hour of convalescent freedom seems rich
recompense for all--pain, gloom, terror.
Something like this are the feelings we experience to-night. Ever before
us has been an unknown danger, heavier than immediate peril. Every
waking hour passed in the Grand Canon has been one of toil. We have
watched with deep solicitude the steady disappearance of our scant
supply of rations, and from time to time have seen the river snatch a
portion of the little left, while we were ahungered. And danger and toil
were endured in those gloomy depths, where ofttimes the clouds hid the
sky by day, and but a narrow zone of stars could be seen at night. Only
during the few hours of deep sleep, consequent on hard labour, has the
roar of the waters been hushed. Now the danger is over; now the toil has
ceased; now the gloom has disappeared; now the firmament is bounded only
by the horizon; and what a vast expanse of constellations can be seen!
The river rolls by us in silent majesty; the quiet of the camp is sweet;
our joy is almost ecstasy. We sit till long after midnight, talking of
the Grand Canon, talking of home, but chiefly talking of the three men
who left us. Are they wandering in those depths, unable to find a way
out? are they searching over the desert lands above for water? or are
they nearing the settlements?
_August 30._ We run two or three short, low canons to-day, and on
emerging from one, we discover a band of Indians in the valley below.
They see us, and scamper away in most eager haste, to hide among the
rocks. Although we land, and call for them to return, not an Indian can
be seen.
Two or three miles farther down, in turning a short bend in the river,
we come upon another camp. So near are we before they can see us that I
can shout to them, and, being able to speak a little of their language,
I tell them we are friends; but they flee to the rocks, except a man, a
woman, and two children. We land, and talk with them. They are without
lodges, but have built little shelters of boughs, under which they
wallow in the sand. The man is dressed in a hat; the woman in a string
of beads only. At first they are evidently much terrified; but when I
talk to them in their own language, and tell them we are friends, and
inquire after people in the Mormon towns, they are soon reassured, and
beg for tobacco. Of this precious article we have none to spare. Sumner
looks around in the boat for something to give them, and finds a little
piece of coloured soap, which they receive as a valuable present, rather
as a thing of beauty than as a useful commodity, however. They are
either unwilling or unable to tell us anything about the Indians or
white people, and so we push off, for we must lose no time.
We camp at noon under the right bank. And now, as we push out, we are
in great expectancy, for we hope every minute to discover the mouth of
the Rio Virgen.
Soon one of the men exclaims: "Yonder's an Indian in the river." Looking
for a few minutes, we certainly do see two or three persons. The men
bend to their oars, and pull toward them. Approaching, we see that there
are three white men and an Indian hauling a seine, and then we discover
that it is just at the mouth of the long-sought river.