Bucky O'Neill, one of Roosevelt's Rough Riders killed at San Juan Hill,
and we suddenly came to the "sure 'nuff" jumping-off place at the edge
of Granite Gorge. One should have at least a week's warning before this
scene is thrown upon the screen. I think it was here that Irvin Cobb
tendered his resignation--effective immediately. Straight down, fifteen
hundred feet beneath one, flows the Colorado. There are no words to
describe this. One must see it for one's self. Down, down, back and
forth zigzags that trail, jumping from crag to crag and mesa to mesa,
finally running on to the mere thread suspended from wall to wall high
above the sullen brown torrent. When once started down this last lap of
the journey riverward, one finds that the trail is a great deal smoother
than that already traveled. But the bridge! Picture to yourself a
four-foot wooden road, four hundred and twenty feet long, fenced with
wire, and slung on steel cables fifty feet above a rushing muddy river,
and you will see what I was supposed to ride across. My Indian horse
stopped suddenly, planted himself firmly--and looked. I did likewise.
"Those cables look light," I said, seeking some excuse to stay right
where I was. But the Chief calmly informed me that they were "heavy
enough." I presume he should know, having helped to carry them down that
twelve-mile trail. Pride alone prevented me from turning and fleeing
back up that steep trail like a fly up a wall. I looked at White
Mountain. He was riding serenely on, never doubting my close attendance
at his horse's heels. I told myself that I had undoubtedly reached a
bridge that _had_ to be crossed, and so I spoke firmly, or as firmly as
possible under the circumstances, to Supai Bob. No results. Bob was as
unresponsive as any other Indian when he doesn't want to "savvy." I
coaxed, I pulled, I pushed. I spanked with a board. Bob was not
interested in what was across the river. Then and there I formed a high
regard for that pony's sound judgment and will-power. At last the Chief
looked back and saw my predicament. He turned his horse loose to
continue across alone and came back over the wildly swaying bridge to
me.
"What's the matter?"
Just as if he couldn't well see! I glared at him and he grinned.
"Why don't you talk to him in Supai language?"
"Speak to him yourself," I snapped and stalked out on that heaving
horror. I never learned the details of the conversation, but a clatter
of hoofs sounded behind me and Bob anchored his nose against my
shoulder, there to remain until terra firma was regained. I worried all
the rest of the way over and back about having to get him across again,
but returning, he walked on to the bridge as if crossing it were his
life work.
On the north end of the bridge where the cables are anchored is a
labyrinth of trails crossing and recrossing. The Chief explained that
Bright Angel, the little wild burro, had made those at a time when high
water had marooned him on that small area. While the bridge was being
built he hung around constantly, and when it was completed he was the
first animal allowed to cross it. I wonder what he thought of the
promised land he had gazed at so longingly for years. Poor Brighty fell
a victim to a tramp who refused to listen to advice, and crossed to the
North Rim after the snows had come. Perhaps he had reasons for hiding
away, but he took little Brighty from his winter home in the bottom of
the Canyon to carry his pack for him. After being snowed in for several
weeks in a cattle cabin several miles back from the Rim, Brighty died of
starvation and was eaten by the man. Brighty had plenty of friends that
miss him when they go down into the Canyon, and it will fare badly with
his murderer if any of the rangers or guides see him again.
Beside the trail, just across the bridge, is a prehistoric ruin. When
Major Powell landed there on his first trip down the Colorado River in
1869, he found broken pottery, an old "matate" and many chipped flints,
indicating that this had been the home of an arrowmaker. The mealing
stone, or matate, can be seen at Phantom Ranch, half a mile on along the
trail.
And just at this point of the trip we came to a tragic spot, the one
where Rees Griffith lies buried beside his own well-built trail. It had
been in the dead of winter when Rees was buried there by his friends,
and now the summer's scorching sun was streaming down on his grave. The
colorful lines of the half-breed Déprez drifted through my mind:
And there he lies now, and nobody knows;
And the summer shines, and the winter snows,
And the little gray hawk floats aloft in the air,
And the gray coyote trots about here and there,
And the buzzard sails on,
And comes back and is gone,
Stately and still like a ship on the sea;
And the rattlesnake slides and glitters and glides
Into his rift in a cottonwood tree.
Just that lonely and already forgotten was the resting-place of the
master trail-builder.
It was noontime now, and all our grub, with the exception of a box of
crackers and a jar of fig jam, likewise our bedding, was far ahead on a
pack mule which had decided not to stop for lunch or dinner. Since we
were not consulted in the matter we lunched on jam and crackers and then
dined on crackers and jam. We hung the remainder of the feast in a tree
and breakfasted on it a week later on our return trip.
When one tries to describe the trail as it was to the North Rim in those
days, words prove weak. The first twelve miles we had already traveled
are too well known to need description; the remaining twenty--all
rebuilt since that time--defy it. Sometimes the trail ran along in the
creek bed for yards and yards. This made it impassable during the spring
freshets. Arizona horses are trained to drink at every opportunity for
fear there may never be another chance, and our mounts had learned
their lesson well. They tried to imbibe at every crossing, and long
after they were loaded to the gunwales they dipped greedy noses into the
current.
Six miles north of the river we turned aside from the main trail and
followed a path a few rods to Ribbon Falls. We had intended to spend the
night there, and I supposed we were to sleep standing up; but there was
Chollo, our prodigal pack mule, who had found a luscious patch of grass
near the Falls and decided to make it her first stopping-place. In that
manner we recovered the bedding roll. White Mountain murmured a few
sweet nothings into her innocent ear and anchored her firmly to a stake.
That didn't please her at all. She complained loudly to her wild
brethren, and they sympathized in heart-comforting brays from all points
near at hand. Our horses were given grain and turned into the grassy
cove, and supper was prepared. And while the coffee boiled we had a
refreshing swim in Nature's bathtub at the bottom of the Falls. High
above, the crystal stream bursts forth from the red cliff and falls in a
sparkling cascade seventy feet, to strike against a big rock upholstered
in softest green. Here it forms a morning-glory pool of almost icy
coolness. Hot coffee and bacon with some of White Mountain's famous
biscuits baked in a reflector tasted like a feed at Sherry's. I watched
the Chief mix his biscuits while I lay resting against the piled-up
saddles. I wondered how he intended to cook them, but managed to keep
still and find out for myself. He took a folded piece of tin from his
pack and with a few magic passes turned it into a roof-shaped structure
resting on its side on two short steel legs. Another twist of the wrist
lifted a little tin shelf into place. This contraption was set about a
yard from the glowing fire and the pan of biscuits was placed on the
shelf. As I stared at the open-work baker the biscuits puffed into
lightness and slowly turned a rich tempting brown. After we had eaten
the last one and the camp was put in order, we sat watching a fat moon
wallow lazily up from behind the Rim. Strange forms crept into sight
with the moon-rise--ruined Irish castles, fortresses hiding their dread
secrets, sculptured groups, and weird goblins. By and by a few stars
blossomed--great soft golden splashes, scattered about in an inverted
turquoise bowl. The heavens seemed almost at our fingertips from the
bottom of this deep southern gorge.
While Bright Angel Creek murmured a soft accompaniment, the Chief told
me how it received its name. An old legend says: Among the first Spanish
explorers a small party attempted to cross the Colorado Canyon. They
wandered down on to the plateau north of the river, and there their food
and water gave out. Many hundreds of feet below them at the bottom of a
sheer precipice flowed the great river. Their leader swooned from thirst
and exhaustion. It seemed certain that death was near. Above them
towered a wall they could not surmount. Just as they were ready to throw
themselves into the river so far below, their leader revived and pleaded
with them to keep going a little longer. He said: "In my dreams I have
seen a beautiful _luminoso angelo_ with sparkling water dripping from
his pinions. He beckons us on, and promises to lead to water." They took
fresh courage and struggled on in desperation, when, lo, at their very
feet flowed a crystal stream of life-giving water. In remembrance of the
vision this stream was called "Bright Angel." Pretty as this legend is,
the bestowal of the name is now officially credited to Major Powell.
After the story ended I crept between my blankets, and as soon as I
became sufficiently inured to the conversation between Chollo and her
sympathizers I fell asleep. But along toward morning some inquisitive
deer came in to share the grain our horses had scattered, and a big
porcupine came home from lodge, quarreling and debating with himself
about something. He stopped near us and chattered angrily about it,
permanently ending our sleep.
After breakfast we followed the trail through more ancient ruins, into a
cottonwood grove and then on to a sandy flat. Sitting low in my saddle,
almost dozing, I revived suddenly at a never-to-be-mistaken B-u-u-z-z-z!
The horses recognized it instantly and froze in their tracks. Sibilant,
wicked, it sounded again, and then a yellow streak slid across the trail
and disappeared under a low bush. We waited, and pretty soon a
coffin-shaped head came up and waved slowly to and fro. The Chief shot
him with his forty-five and the snake twisted and writhed into the
trail, then lay still. A moment later I had the rattles in my hatband
for a souvenir. "Look out for his mate," the Chief said; but we didn't
see it, and a few days later a ranger camping there found it coiled in
his bed, and its rattles joined the ones already in my possession.
On and on climbed the trail, growing steeper at every turn. I could have
walked with a greater degree of comfort, but the Chief said: "Ride!" So
I rode; and I mean just that. I rode every inch of that horse several
times over. What time I wasn't clinging to his tail being dragged up a
precipice, I was hanging around his neck like a limpet. One time, when
the girth slipped, both the saddle and I rode upside down under his
belly. Some time ago I saw a sloth clinging, wrong end to, to the top
bars of his cage. It brought back painful memories of when the saddle
slipped.
When we reached the blue-wall a mighty roaring was audible. Far above, a
torrent of water from some subterranean cavern bursts from the ledge
with such force that the sound carries for miles. This is called Roaring
Springs. Getting up over the blue-wall limestone was arduous. This
limestone formation is difficult to conquer wherever it is found. Almost
straight up, clinging to the horse's mane, we climbed, stopping
frequently to let the panting animals breathe.
As we neared the North Rim, now and then along the trail a wild rose
blossomed, and as we climbed higher we threaded a maze of sweet locust,
fern, and bracken. It was a fairyland. And then the trail topped out at
an elevation of eight thousand feet into the forest primeval. Towering
yellow pines, with feet planted in masses of flowers, pushed toward
heaven. Scattered among the rugged pines were thousands of slender aspen
trees, swaying and quivering, their white trunks giving an artificial
effect to the scene as if the gods had set a stage for some pagan drama.
Ruffed grouse strutted about, challenging the world at large. Our
horses' hoofs scattered a brood and sent them scuttling to cover under
vines and blossoms. Roused from his noonday siesta, a startled deer
bounded away. One doe had her fawn secreted near the trail and she
followed us for some distance to make sure her baby was safe.
As we swung around a curve into an open valley, we came to a decrepit
signpost. And what do you suppose it said? Merely: "Santa Fe R. R. and
El Tovar," while a hand pointed back the way we had come. I wondered how
many travelers had rushed madly around the corner in order to catch the
Santa Fe Limited. But in those days the North Rim seemed to sprout
signs, for soon we overtook this one:
THE JIM OWENS CAMP
GUIDING TOURISTS AND HUNTING PARTIES A SPECIALTY
COUGARS CAUGHT TO ORDER
RATES REASONABLE
Of course the signing of Park lands is contrary to the policies of the
National Park Service, and after White Mountain's inspection trip, these
were promptly removed.
At length we arrived at Jim's camp. Uncle Jim must have caught several
cougars to order, for the cabin walls were covered with pelts and
murderous-looking claws frescoed the ceiling. Uncle Jim told us that he
has caught more than eleven hundred cougars in the past twenty years. He
guided Teddy Roosevelt on his hunts in Arizona, and I doubt if there is
a hunter and guide living today that is as well known and loved by
famous men as is Jim Owens. He has retired from active guiding now, and
spends his time raising buffalo in the Rock House Valley.
Scenery on the North Rim is more varied and beautiful than that where we
lived at El Tovar. Do you favor mountains? "I will lift up mine eyes to
the hills from whence cometh my help." Far across the Canyon loom the
snow-capped heights of San Francisco Peaks. Truly from those hills comes
help. Water from a huge reservoir filled by melting snow on their
summits supplies water to towns within a radius of a hundred miles.
Look to the south and you see the Navajo Reservation, and the glorious,
glowing Painted Desert. If peaceful scenes cloy, and you hanker for a
thrill, drop your glance to the Colorado River, foaming and racing a
mile or so below. Sunset from this point will linger in my memory while
I live. A weird effect was caused by a sudden storm breaking in the
Canyon's depths. All sense of deepness was blotted out and, instead,
clouds billowed and beat against the jutting walls like waves breaking
on some rock-bound coast.
Point Sublime has been featured in poems and paint until it needs little
introduction. It was here that Dutton drew inspiration for most of his
poems of Grand Canyon, weaving a word picture of the scene,
awe-inspiring and wonderful. How many of you have seen the incomparable
painting of the Grand Canyon hanging in the Capitol at Washington? The
artist, Thomas Moran, visited Point Sublime in 1873 with Major Powell,
and later transferred to canvas the scene spread before him.
Deer and grouse and small animals were about us all the way, and I had
the pleasure of seeing a big white-tailed squirrel dart around and
around a tree trunk. This squirrel is found nowhere else.
That evening at sunset we drove with Blondy Jensen to VT Park through
the "President's Forest." At first we saw two or three deer together,
and then we came upon them feeding like herds of cattle, literally
hundreds of them. They were all bucks. Blondy said the does were still
back in the deep woods with their fawns. We reached the Diamond Bar
Ranch just as supper was ready, and the cowboys invited us to eat. Two
big Dutch ovens were piled with live coals before the fireplace. I eyed
them with a lot of curiosity until a smiling cowboy lifted the lids for
me to peep within. One was full of simmering tender beef and the other
held biscuits just turning a delicious brown. I made up our minds then,
and we all stayed for supper.
It was late when we started back to our camp on the Rim, and the big car
slid along at a great rate. Suddenly Blondy jammed on the brakes and
almost lost me through the windshield. An enormous full-grown deer
loomed directly in front of the headlights. There he stood, head thrown
back, nostrils distended, monarch of all he surveyed. A moment longer he
posed, then leaped away into the darkness, leaving us wondering if we
had really seen anything.
All too soon it was time for us to start back to the South Rim, and we
made a reluctant departure. It rained on us part of the way, and
loosened rocks made the going perilous. Halfway down the steepest part
we met half a dozen loose pack mules. One of the first rules of safety
for a trail without turnouts is that no loose stock must be allowed on
it. My Indian horse chose that particular time and place to throw a fit
of temperament, and he climbed out of the way of the wild mules by
scrambling up a perpendicular rock and flattening out against the
hillside. I slid off over his tail and landed in the trail on the back
of my neck, but popped up to see what had happened to the Chief. The
pack mules were being urged on from the rear by a fool mule-skinner, and
they had crowded Tony, the Chief's mount, off the trail on to a
good-sized rock that stuck out over the brink. He stood trembling on the
rock and the Chief stood beside him on the same rock with an arm around
the scared horse's neck, talking to him in his usual slow, calm way, all
the time stroking Tony's ears and patting his neck. Inch by inch the
rock was parting from the earth holding it, and it seemed to me I would
just die of terror. White Mountain just kept on talking to the horse and
trying to coax him back into the trail. At last Tony turned an almost
human look on the Chief and then stepped back into the trail, just as
the boulder gave way and went crashing down the incline, carrying trees,
rocks, and earth with it.
"Why didn't you let him go? Why did you just stand there like an idiot?"
I raved. The reaction was so great that I entirely lost my temper.
"Oh, my good new saddle was on him. I couldn't let that go, you know,"
said White Mountain.
In the meantime the mules continued to mill and buck in the trail. Up
rushed Mr. Mule-Skinner. He addressed the Chief in about these words:
"Get the hell outa my way, you ---- ---- fool. Ain't you got no sense at
all?"
We will skip the next inch or two of this narrative, and let kind
oblivion cover it as cool dusk masks the ravages of burning noon.
Anyway, this was part of a hunting outfit, including Fred Stone, bound
for the North Rim. To this day I can't see any comedy in Mr. Stone's
acting.
Tony seemed quite unnerved by his encounter, and as we crossed the
swinging bridge he became startled at something and plunged wildly
against the wire fencing the bridge. The Chief threw out a hand to
steady himself and his ring, caught on a broken wire, cut into and
buried itself in his flesh. When we reached the south end of the bridge
we dismounted and tried to care for the painful wound, but with no
medicine or water there was little we could do. We bound it up in a
handkerchief and went on to the top, the Chief suffering agonies with
the injury and the intense heat. On top a ranger cut the flesh away and
filed the ring off. I added it to my other souvenirs.
[Illustration]
_Chapter XIII: SISTERS UNDER THE SKIN[4]_
"For the Colonel's Lady and Judy O'Grady
Are sisters under the skin!"
"And what of the women and children? How do they live?" I have been
asked again and again, when speaking of Indians of the Southwest. And
who isn't interested in the intimate details of the home life of our
Indian sisters?
What of their work? Their homes? Their dress? And--most interesting to
us paleface women--what of their love affairs?
Most of you have seen the stolid squaw, wrapped in a soiled blanket,
silently offering her wares to tourists throughout the Southwest. Does
it seem strange to you that this same stoical creature is just bubbling
over with femininity? That she loves with devotion, is torn with
passionate jealousy, and adorns herself just as carefully within her
limited means for the benefit of masculine eyes, as you do? Among
friends she sparkles, and laughs and gossips with her neighbors over a
figurative back fence just as you do in Virginia or Vermont. Just
living, loving, joyous, or sorrowing women are these brown-skinned
sisters of ours.
Were I looking for inspiration to paint a Madonna I would turn my steps
toward the Painted Desert, and there among the Indian people I would
find my model. Indian mothers are real mothers. Their greatest passion
is mother-love. Not a pampering, sheltering, foolish love, but a great,
tender love that seeks always what is best for the child, regardless of
the mother's feelings or the child's own desires. The first years of an
Indian baby's life are very simple. Apart from being fed without having
to catch his dinner, there is not much to choose between his existence
and that of any other healthy young animal. He and his little companions
dart about in sunshine and rain, naked as little brown kewpies. I have
never seen a deformed Indian baby or one with spinal trouble. Why?
Because the mothers grow up living natural lives: they dress in
loose-fitting, sensible clothing; they wear flat-heeled shoes or
moccasins; they eat plain, nourishing food; and they walk and ride and
work until almost the minute the child is born. They take the newborn
babe to a water hole, bathe it, then strap it on a straight board with
its little spine absolutely supported. Here it spends the first six
months of its existence.
The child's chin is bound round with a soft strip of leather, so that
its breathing is done through its nostrils; no adenoids or mouth
breathing among the Indians, and very little lung trouble as long as
they do not try to imitate the white man's ways.
Different tribes celebrate the birth of a child in different ways. The
gift is always welcome when a little new life comes into an Indian home.
The Hopi mother rubs her baby with wood ashes so that its body will not
be covered with hair. Then a great feast is held and thank-offering
gifts are received. Each relative brings an ear of corn to the mother
and gives a name to the child. It may receive twenty or more names at
birth, and yet in later life it will choose a name for itself or be
named by its mother.
Not so much ceremony greets the Navajo baby. Navajo mothers are far too
busy and baby additions are too frequent to get excited about. The
mother bathes herself and the newcomer in cold water, wraps him in his
swaddling clothes of calico, straps him on his board cradle, suspends it
on a limb, and goes on with the spinning or weaving that had occupied
her a few minutes before. All Indian babies are direct gifts from the
Powers That Be, and a token of said Powers' favor. A childless Indian
wife is pitied and scoffed at by her tribe.
After a few months the child is released from his cradle prison and
allowed to tumble around the mother's loom while she weaves her
blankets. He entertains himself and learns to creep and then to walk
without any help. If there is an older child he is left in its care. It
is not unusual to see a two or three-year-old youngster guarding a still
younger one, and keeping it out of the fire or from under the hoofs of
the ponies grazing around the camp.
As the children grow older they are trained to work. The boys watch the
flocks and help cultivate the fields, if fields there be, and the little
girls are taught the household tasks of tanning the sheep hides, drying
the meat in the sun, braiding the baskets, carding and spinning wool and
making it into rugs, shaping the pottery and painting and baking it over
the sheep-dung fires. These and dozens of other tasks are ever at hand
for the Indian woman to busy herself with. If you think for an instant
that you'd like to leave your own house and live a life of ease with the
Indian woman, just forget it. It is a life of labor and hardship, of
toil and endless tasks, from day-break until long after dark, and with
the most primitive facilities one can imagine. Only on calendars do we
see a beauteous Indian maiden draped in velvet, reclining on a mossy
bank, and gazing at her own image in a placid pool. That Indian is the
figment of a fevered artist brain in a New York studio. Should a real
Indian woman try that stunt she'd search a long way for the water. Then
she'd likely recline in a cactus bed and gaze at a medley of hoofs and
horns of deceased cows bogged down in a mud hole. Such are the
surroundings of our real Indians.