Powell’s Second Attack on the Colorado—Green River City—Red Canyon and
a Capsize—The Grave of Hook—The Gate of Lodore—Cliff of the
Harp—Triplet Falls and Hell’s Half-Mile—A Rest in Echo Park.
Though Powell had demonstrated the possibility of passing alive through
the thousand-mile stretch of canyons on the Green and Colorado, the
scientific results of his hazardous voyage were not what he had
desired. Owing to the numerous disasters many of the instruments had
been lost, and he had been prevented by this, as well as by other
circumstances, from fully accomplishing his intention. On this account
he concluded to continue his labours in this direction, and determined
to make another descent if he could secure the pecuniary aid of the
Government. His application was favourably considered, as it certainly
deserved to be, and Congress appropriated a sum for a second expedition
that should also examine the adjacent country for a distance of twelve
miles on each side of the river. To insure certainty of food supplies
for the continuance of the work, Powell visited the region in 1870 for
the purpose of examining the feasibility of having rations taken in by
pack-trains at several points. He concluded this could be done at the
mouth of the Uinta River, at the mouth of the Dirty Devil, at the Ute
Ford or Crossing of the Fathers, and at the mouth of the Paria, where
he expected to retire from the river for the winter, to conduct
explorations in the surrounding mountains. It was on this occasion that
he went to the Uinkaret Mountains (September, 1870) and investigated
the cause of the disappearance of the Howlands and Dunn. Returning then
to Kanab, at that time the farthest frontier settlement of the Mormons,
he visited the Moki Towns, across the Colorado, and went back to the
East to finish his preparations. In the winter of 1871-72 Congress made
an additional appropriation for this expedition. The supervision was
vested in that noble character, Joseph Henry, then Secretary of the
Smithsonian Institution. Professor Henry was entirely favourable and
sympathetic, and his approval was of the highest value. He secured some
instruments for the work and lent his aid in every possible manner. A
privilege of drawing rations at the Western army posts was also again
granted, and this saved a great deal of expense.
Green River Station, U.P. Ry., Wyoming, 1871. Green River Station, U.P.
Ry., Wyoming, 1871.
Starting point of the two Powell expeditions.
Through a friend who was an old army acquaintance of Powell’s I secured
an interview in Chicago, whither I went for the purpose. Its character
was a good illustration of the explorer’s quick decision. As I advanced
towards him he rose to his feet, surveyed me with a lightning glance,
and said heartily, “Well, Fred, you’ll do.” These words constituted me
a member of his party, and I began my preparations forthwith. Dozens of
men applied to join the expedition, but no more were taken, the party
being now full.
Our First Camp, Green River, Wyoming. Thompson, Hattan, Jones, Steward,
W.C. Powell, Richardson, Dellenbaugh, Bishop.
Our First Camp, Green River, Wyoming.
U.S. Colorado River Expedition, 1871.
The borrowed table was, of course, left behind. Photograph by E.O.
BEAMAN.
The boats for this trip were modelled on those used on the former
descent, with such changes and improvements as experience had
suggested. They were honestly and thoroughly constructed by a builder
named Bagley, who had a yard where he turned out small craft, at the
north end of the old Clark Street bridge, and we often felt a sense of
gratitude to him for doing his work so well. They were three in number,
of well-seasoned, clear-grained, half-inch oak, smooth-built,
double-ribbed fore and aft, square-sterned, and all practically the
same, the former trip having shown the needlessness of taking any
smaller or frailer boat for piloting purposes. These were each
twenty-two feet long over all, and about twenty on the keel. They were
rather narrow for their length, but quite deep for boats of their size,
drawing, if I remember correctly, when fully laden, some fourteen or
sixteen inches of water. This depth made it possible to carry a heavy
load, which was necessary, and at the same time which acted as ballast
to keep them right side up amidst the counter-currents and tumbling
waters. A rudder being entirely out of place in the kind of navigation
found in the canyons, a heavy rowlock was placed at the stern to hold a
strong, eighteen-foot steering oar. The boats were entirely decked over
on a level with the gunwales, excepting two open spaces left for the
rowers. These open spaces, or standing-rooms, were separated from the
decked portions by bulkheads, thus forming under the decks three
water-tight compartments or cabins, that would not only protect the
cargoes and prevent loss in the event of capsize, but would also serve
to keep the boats afloat when loaded and full of water in the open
parts. The rowlocks were of iron, of the pattern that comes close
together at the top, so that an oar must either be slipped through from
the handle end or drawn up toward the thin part above the blade to get
it out. By attaching near the handle a rim of hard leather, there was
no way for the oar to come out accidentally, and so well did this
arrangement work that in a capsize the oars remained in the rowlocks.
To any one wishing to try the descent of the Colorado, I commend these
boats as being perhaps as well adapted to the work as any that can be
devised; though perhaps a pointed stern would be an improvement. Iron
construction is not advisable, as it is difficult to repair.
The Boats of Powells Second Expedition on the Beach at Green River,
Wyoming. The Boats of Powells Second Expedition on the Beach at Green
River, Wyoming.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
When I went the first, time to look at the boats lying on Bagley’s
wharf, their ominous porpoise-like appearance gave me a peculiar
sensation. I had expected rough-water, but this was the first
understanding I had that the journey was to be more or less amphibian.
On a day when the waves on Lake Michigan were running high we took them
out for trial. The crews were filled out by Bagley’s men, our party not
all being present, and with some reporters and a cargo of champagne and
cigars our course was laid for the open sea. The action of the boats
was all that could be desired, and, in the great billows it was so
constant that our reportorial friends found some difficulty in
obtaining their share of the refreshments. We were satisfied that the
boats could ride any sea, and they were accordingly placed on a car and
sent by way of the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy and the Union
Pacific railways to Green River Station. These companies charged
nothing for this service and also transported all the men and baggage
on the same terms. On the 29th of April we alighted at Green River and
found the boats already there. This place, when the railway was
building, had been for a considerable time the terminus, and a town of
respectable proportions had grown up, but with the completion of the
road through this region, the terminus had moved on, and now all that
was to be seen of those golden days was a group of adobe walls,
roofless and forlorn. The present “city” consisted of about thirteen
houses, and some of these were of such complex construction that one
hesitates whether to describe them as houses with canvas roofs, or
tents with board sides. The population consisted of a few whites, a
number of Chinese railway labourers, an occasional straggling miner,
native, or cattleman, and last but not least, at the small
railway-station eating-house, honoured by the patronage of
emigrant-trains, his highness Ah Chug, the cook, whose dried-apple
pies, at twenty-five cents apiece, I have never ceased to enjoy, for
they were the ladder by which I was able to descend from a home table
to the camp fare of bacon and beans. I then despised these ruder
viands, but now I desire to pay my tribute to them by saying that as a
basis for campaigning they are the very best. In hot weather you eat
more beans and less bacon, and when the weather is cold your diet is
easily arranged in the reverse order.
Ruins of Green River Terminus. Ruins of Green River Terminus.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
The boats were speedily launched upon the swift current at the bridge
and steered down to a little cove on the left, a few hundred yards
below, where they were hauled out on a beach to give them the finishing
touches of preparation, like attaching canvas covers to the cabins, and
so forth. Nearby, amongst the willows, we established our first camp—a
place of real luxury, for Mr. Field, who had an outfitting house here,
lent us a table and two benches. Andy set up some crotches and a
cross-bar, to hang his kettles on, and with a cast-iron bake oven—one
of the kind like a flat, iron pot, in which, after it is stood upon a
bed of hot coals, the bread is placed, and then the cast-iron cover is
put on, and laden with hot coals—began his experiments in cookery, for
it was a new art to him. In the beginning he was rather too liberal
with his salaratus, but the product gave us the pleasant delusion of
having reached a land of gold nuggets. Andy soon improved, and we
learned to appreciate his rare skill to such an extent that the moment
he took his old hat and with it lifted the coffee-pot off the fire, and
then placed beside it the bread and bacon with the pleasing remark:
“Well, now, go fur it, boys!” we lost not a moment in accepting the
invitation. As bread must be made for every meal, Andy’s was no easy
berth, for his work on the river was the same as that of the rest of
us. It was only when we were engaged in a portage near dinner or supper
time that he was permitted to devote his entire attention to the
preparation of our elaborate meals. Bean soup, such as Andy made, is
one of the most delicious things in the world; and Delmonico could not
hold a candle to his coffee. Our three boats bore the names _Emma
Dean_, after Mrs. Powell, _Nellie Powell_, after Major Powell’s sister,
Mrs. Thompson, and _Cañonita_. The men and their assignment to the
boats were these: J. W. Powell, S. V. Jones, J. K. Hillers; F. S.
Dellenbaugh—the _Emma Dean;_ A. H. Thompson, J. F. Steward, F. M.
Bishop, F. C. A. Richardson—the _Nellie Powell;_ E. O. Beaman, W. C.
Powell, A. J. Hattan—the _Cañonita_.
Jones had been a teacher in Illinois. He went as a topographer. Hillers
was a soldier in the Civil War, and was at first not specially
assigned, but later, when the photographer gave out, he was directed to
assist in that branch, and eventually became head photographer, a
position he afterwards held with the Geological Survey for many years.
A large number of the photographs from which this volume is illustrated
were taken by him and they speak for themselves. Thompson was from
Illinois. He also had been a soldier in the war, and on this expedition
was Powell’s colleague, as well as the geographer. To his foresight,
rare good judgment, ability to think out a plan to the last minute
detail, fine nerve and absolute lack, of any kind of foolishness,
together with a wide knowledge and intelligence, this expedition, and
indeed the scientific work so admirably carried on by the United States
Survey of the Rocky Mountain region and the Geological Survey for three
decades in the Far West, largely owe success. Steward was an old
soldier, was from Illinois, and went with us as geologist, assisting
Powell himself in this line. Bishop had been a captain in the war, had
been shot through and through the left lung, and was an enthusiast in
Western exploration. He was one of the topographers. Richardson was
from Chicago and was general assistant to the geologists and
topographers. Beaman was from New York. He was photographer; and W. C.
Powell, from Illinois, and a nephew of Major Powell, was his assistant.
Hattan was a Virginian, but had lived long in Illinois. He had been a
soldier in the war, and went with us as cook, because he wanted the
trip, and there was no other post open to him. I hailed from Buffalo,
was the youngest of the party, and served as artist to the geologists,
and later was placed on the topographical work. Mrs. Powell and Mrs.
Thompson spent several days at Green River and rendered much
assistance, the latter presenting each boat with a handsome flag made
by her own hands.
Almon Harris Thompson. Almon Harris Thompson.
Powell’s colleague in the second descent of the Colorado and subsequent
work. For over thirty years prominently connected with United States
survey work in the basin of the Colorado and adjacent country, and in
the Eastern States.
Recent photograph by CLINEDINST.
An arm-chair obtained from Field was arranged so that it could be
strapped on the deck of the middle cabin of our boat, as a seat for
Powell, to enable him to be comfortable and at the same time see well
ahead. This had a tendency to make the _Dean_ slightly top-heavy, but
only once did serious consequences apparently result from it, and I am
not sure that the absence of the high load would have made any
difference. Though Powell had descended before, he could not remember
every detail and kept a sharp lookout always. The
provisions—everything, in fact, except the bacon, which was too
greasy—were put in rubber sacks that, when closed, were absolutely
water-tight. These bags were encased in cotton sacks and gunny bags to
protect the rubber. Each man was allowed one hundred pounds of baggage,
including his blankets, and was given two rubber bags to stow it in.
When the time came to load up we found we had a formidable pile of
things that must go. The photographic apparatus was particularly bulky,
for neither the dry-plate nor film had yet been invented. The
scientific instruments were also bulky, being in wooden, canvas-covered
cases; and there were eleven hundred pounds of flour in twenty-two
rubber sacks.
Ready for the Start, U.S. Colorado River Expedition, Green River,
Wyoming 1871. Ready for the Start, U.S. Colorado River Expedition,
Green River, Wyoming 1871.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN.
On the 22d of May, 1871, all being ready, and the boats finally packed,
we prepared to push off. To save time, breakfast was taken at Field’s
place, which, owing to the kindness of himself and his charming family,
had seemed very much like home to us. Then the populace to the number
of about fifteen—the Chinamen refusing to countenance any outfit
harbouring such a terrible engine of the devil as a photographic
apparatus—assembled on the beach to give us God-speed. The cheerful
conception of this service on the part of a deaf-mute was to fill the
air with violent gestures to indicate—and it was vivid enough—that we
could not possibly escape destruction. One of his series represented
with uncomfortable clearness a drowning man vainly striving to climb up
a vertical wall. This pantomime was the last thing I saw from my
position at the oars as we turned a bend and left the “city” behind.
Portraits of All but Two Members of the Boat Party of the U.S. Colorado
River Expedition of 1871. Portraits of All but Two Members of the Boat
Party of the U.S. Colorado River Expedition of 1871.
The others were E.O. Beaman and Andrew J. Hattan. In 1871 Messrs.
Bishop, Steward, and Beaman were obliged to leave on account of ill
health, and did not enter the Grand Canyon. These portraits were taken
within a year or two after the expedition, that of Mr. Hillers on a
hasty visit to Salt Lake.
We were much better provided for than the first party. We had a guide,
our boats were superior, our plan for supplies was immeasurably better,
both as to caring for what we took along and what we were to receive at
the several indicated places—mouth of the Uinta, mouth of the Dirty
Devil, Crossing of the Fathers, and the Paria. We also had rubber
life-preservers to inflate at the more dangerous points. Mine did me
little good, as I soon found it was in my way and I never wore it; nor
did Hillers wear his. As we handled the oars of our boat we concluded
it would be safer to do it in the best manner possible, and not be
encumbered by these sausages under our elbows, but we always placed
them behind us at bad places, ready for use; all the others, however,
wore theirs and seemed to find no objection to them in the way of
interference. A cork jacket could be worn easier when rowing, and I
would recommend it, but the thing of first importance is to have the
_right kind_ of boats, and know how to handle them. An humble spirit is
also a great safeguard. After starting, the usual number of slight
accidents occurred, but there was nothing to interfere with our steady
progress into the silent, lonely land, where the great Dragon, whose
tail we were now just touching, tore the air to tatters with his
writhings. Our light oars were snapped like reeds, but luckily we had
plenty of extras, and some ten-foot ones were cut down to eight, and
these proved to be strong enough. On the morning of the 23d we were
treated to a snow-storm and the air was very cold. It soon cleared,
however; and the sun shone again bright and warm, and we went on
rejoicing. The next day we reached the mouth of Black’s Fork, and after
this the river was deeper and we were less troubled by grounding, the
boats being only three inches out of water at the gunwales. The area
between Black’s Fork and the Green was strewn with beautiful
moss-agates. I longed to secure a quantity, but this was out of the
question. Geese and ducks floated on the water around us, but with our
rifles it was difficult to get any. There was not a shot-gun in the
party. We soon came in sight of the superb snow-covered Uinta range,
extending east and west across the land, and apparently an effectual
barrier to any progress of the river in that direction, but every day
we drew nearer to it. Some of our men shot three deer, and we had fresh
meat for a day or two, “jerking” all we could not consume in that time.
There was plenty of game along the river here and for a long distance
down, but we were not skilled hunters, nor did we have time to follow
game or manoeuvre for it, so our diet was mainly confined to what Andy
could produce by his manipulation of the supplies we carried. The day
following the one that gave us the deer, the river became very winding,
and a fearful gale blew across it, carrying sand into our eyes and some
water into our boats. In the late afternoon we bore down on a ridge,
about one thousand feet high, which extended far in both directions
athwart our course. It was the edge of the Uinta Mountains. At its very
foot the river seemed to stop. It could be seen neither to right nor,
to left, nor could any opening be detected in the mountain, except high
up where Powell pointed out to us a bare patch of brilliant red rocks
saying it was the top of Flaming Gorge, the beginning of the canyon
series. Passing the mouth of Henry’s Fork on the right, the river
doubled suddenly to the left between two low cliffs, where there was a
small whirlpool, which I take to be the “Green River Suck” of Ashley
and the early trappers. Around another point we swept and found
ourselves floating on the tranquil waters of Flaming Gorge. A fine
grove of deep green cottonwoods stood out on the left in contrast to
the rough red rocks. There were moored the other boats, which on this
occasion had preceded us, and the ever-faithful Andy was engaged in
preparing dinner. The next and first real canyon was the one called
Horseshoe, a short and beautiful gorge some sixteen hundred feet in
depth, and containing rapid “Number One,” a very mild affair, but
particularly noticeable because it is the first of the six hundred,
great and small, we had the satisfaction of vanquishing in our war
against the falling waters. We had already descended something over one
hundred and fifty of the five thousand feet we expected to go down, but
there had been only swift water at that stage of flood; nothing that,
on the Colorado, would be considered a serious rapid.
Green River Valley. Camp at Tilted Ledge near Henry’s Fork. Green River
Valley. Camp at Tilted Ledge near Henry’s Fork.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Every morning the cabins of the boats were packed like so many trunks.
The blankets were rolled up and put in their rubber cases, all bags of
supplies were securely tied and stowed away, in short, every article
was placed in the cabins and the hatches firmly buttoned in place, with
the canvas cover drawn snugly over the deck. Only a grand smash-up
could injure these things. Nothing was left out but such instruments as
were hourly needed, the guns, life-preservers, and a camp-kettle in
each boat for bailing purposes. On each of two boats there was a
topographer, whose duty was to sight the direction of every bend of the
river and estimate the length of the stretch. Thompson, on his boat,
also kept a similar record. The sighting was done with a prismatic
compass, and one of these was rendered more interesting by bearing on
the leather case the name of George B. McClellan, written by the future
general when he was a lieutenant of engineers. There was seldom much
discrepancy between the different estimates made during the day, as men
grow very accurate in such matters, but a check on all estimates was
obtained by frequent observations for latitude and longitude.
Head of Kingfisher Canyon, Green River. Head of Kingfisher Canyon,
Green River.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
The third canyon is also a short one, the three aggregating less than
ten miles. Because of the many kingfishers flying about it was called
Kingfisher Canyon, and a point where they were especially numerous was
named Bee-hive. At the foot of this third short canyon the rocks ran
together in a forbidding manner, and out of the depths beyond came a
roar, just as one outside of the jungle might hear the lion’s note
within. On a bright Friday morning we were ready to try our fortune,
and with all made snug, pulled in between the cliffs where in a moment
we beheld a wild sea of descending foam. Rapid quickly followed rapid
and immediately we had some exciting work. Our boat was swept so near
the right-hand cliff that one of the after rowlocks was torn off, and
at about the same time the _Nellie Powell_, following but signalled to
keep to the left, was seen to strike rocks near the opposite side and
capsize. The next instant we were borne out of sight. Hillers, with
only one rowlock, could not use his oars, so the work devolved entirely
on me. The boat was heavy for one pair of oars, and we were being
carried down stream at a terrific pace. On the left was a little beach
where we might land, and I pulled for this with all my power. At length
to my great relief I felt the keel touch bottom. We were still about
fifteen feet from the beach, but the water was not any deeper than the
grating of the keel indicated, so we were overboard in a moment and
pulled her to the bank. At the same instant the _Cañonita_ ran in,
dashing up like a horse finishing a race. The crew reported the other
boat upside down, but they were unable to stop to help her. They
thought the crew were safe, and we hoped with all our hearts they were.
There was nothing we could do but wait for some sign from above, and in
about three quarters of an hour the boat came rushing down with all
hands safe and exceedingly happy over claiming the distinction of the
first capsize. Now many rapids fell to our lot, and we were kept busy
every moment. On the 4th of June we passed the wrecks of some boats
half-buried in the sand, and on landing we discovered a grave on a
little knoll some distance back from the water, with a pine board stuck
up at its head bearing the name of Hook. The rapid that had apparently
caused the disaster told by these objects we easily ran. The
unfortunates had attempted the descent in flat-bottomed boats, that
shipped much water and toppled over with the slightest provocation.
They had followed Powell on his former trip, declaring that if he could
go down the river so could they, but they learned their mistake and
paid dearly for the experience. The leader, whose bones lie in these
splendid depths of Red Canyon, was said to have been the first mayor of
Cheyenne. Many more rapids we ran with a current of from six to twelve
or fifteen miles per hour, and we made many “let-downs,” which means
working a boat along the edge of a rapid by the aid of lines, without
removing the cargo. We called this process, when we removed the cargo,
a “line portage,” as distinguished from a complete portage where the
boats were taken out of the water.
Shortly after dinner one day we heard a deep roaring, which implied
that we were approaching a violent fall, and hugging the left-hand
bank, we drifted slowly down to within a rod or two of the drop and
easily landed. It was Ashley Falls. In the centre of the river
protruded an immense rock, twenty-five feet square, and the river
rushed by on each side making a sudden descent of about eight feet. It
would have been nothing to run had it been free from rocks; but it was
in reality the rocks which formed it. They had fallen from the
left-hand wall within some comparatively recent time, and acted as a
dam. Many more were piled up against the left-hand cliff. The river,
averaging about two hundred and fifty feet wide, had been narrowed by
about one-third and a rapid had thus been changed into a fall. We made
a portage here with the first and third boats. The second we allowed to
run through with lines attached, but as she got several severe knocks
we deemed it unsafe to risk the other. Our camp was on a small level
place among some pine trees, almost over the fall, and I think I never
saw a more romantic spot. The moon shone down into the canyon with
surpassing brilliancy, and this, in contrast to our lavish camp-fire
and extremely comfortable surroundings, made a combination ever to be
remembered. See pages 113 and 112.
It was on one of the huge rocks above the river on the left that Ashley
wrote his name. This was in black letters, sheltered by a slight
projection of the rock which acted as a cornice. Thus it had remained
distinct, except one figure of the date, for forty-six years, having
been done in 1825. The portage around Ashley Falls was laborious as we
were obliged to climb with everything about fifty feet above the river,
but labour is better than disaster, and it was on such points as these
that Powell and Thompson always exhibited good sense. Smaller men would
have been unable to resist the temptation to run everything, for there
comes an exhilaration in this work that is subtle and dangerous. Below
this the declivity was very great, but as there were few rocks our
boats were able to go down flying. The walls were two thousand to
twenty-five hundred feet high, but not vertical. Suddenly we ran out
into a beautiful little valley on the right known to trappers as Little
Brown’s Hole, and renamed by our party Red Canyon Park. Here we camped
for a day and then went on between high walls over a number of rapids,
to emerge into Brown’s Park. This place, I take it, was the end of
Ashley’s journey down the river. Sailing along on a quiet current in a
valley six miles wide, we ran upon a camp of cattle herders, where
Richardson left us, as Powell decided that he was not able to stand the
work. He regretfully went back with some of the cattlemen to Green
River Station.
The Heart of Lodore. The Heart of Lodore.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
The Canyon of Lodore. Looking down Stream. The Canyon of Lodore.
Looking down Stream.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
River here was extremely swift. Fall at left distance. Second
expedition landed with difficulty on right at foot of tall pines. The
dark lines at water’s edge are the boats.
CThe Canyon of Lodore. Looking across a Rapid.anyon The Canyon of
Lodore. Looking across a Rapid.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
The temperature was now often 99 degrees F. in the shade, and rowing on
the slow current was irksome, so we lashed the boats together and
drifted along while the Major in his armchair read aloud selections
from Scott, Emerson, and others, whose condensed poetical works and a
couple of Bibles were all the literature to be found in the party, as
books are heavy and weight was to be avoided. At times some of the men
amused themselves by diving under the boats, swimming around and ahead
of them, or surprised a coyote on the bank with a rifle-shot, and
otherwise enjoyed the relaxation we had well earned by our toil in Red
Canyon. The river was smooth and deep and about six hundred to eight
hundred feet wide. At the very foot of the valley we made a camp under
the shadow of that magnificent and unrivalled portal, the Gate of
Lodore, which had been visible to us for many miles; the dark cleft two
thousand feet high, through which the river cuts into the heart of the
mountains, appearing as solemn and mysterious as the pathway to another
world. From an eminence we could peer into its depths for some
distance, and there was no sign of a rapid, but we were not deceived,
having posted ourselves by extracts from Jack Sumner’s diary, whose
description of “how the waters come down at Lodore” was contained in
the frequent repetition of the words, “a hell of foam.” Lodore, indeed,
is almost one continuous rapid for the whole twenty miles of its
length, and the passage through it will tax the endurance of any man.
The declivity is the greatest of the whole river with the exception of
the First Granite Gorge of the Grand Canyon and a portion of Cataract
Canyon. A diagram of it is given on page 57. I have space only to
describe one or two characteristic incidents. The current of the river
was extraordinarily swift; it must have been in some places nearly
twenty miles an hour. The stream averaged about three hundred feet
wide. The boats in a rapid fairly flew along amidst the foam, plunging
and rearing in the “tails” of waves which always terminate rapids of
this class. One day about noon we came shooting down over one of these
places, having just run a rather bad rapid, when we saw only a few
hundred yards below an ugly looking fall. The left wall came down very
straight into the water and threw a deep shadow over it so that we
could not tell exactly what was there. Opposite was a rocky wooded
point, and between the two the river bodily fell away. Altogether it
was a beautiful, though a startling picture. The whole set of the
current was towards this drop with headlong fury. There were no eddies,
no slack water of any kind. But we could not do such a foolhardy thing
as to go into it without knowing what it was and therefore a landing
was imperative. Accordingly we headed for the right bank, and laid to
our oars till they bent like straws. We almost reached the shore. It
was only a few feet away, but the relentless current was hurling us,
broadside on, toward the dark rocks where the smooth water was broken
and torn and churned to shreds of snowy foam. There was only one thing
for us to do, if we did not want to run upon the rocks, and that was to
leap overboard, and trust to bringing the boat to a stop by holding on
to the bottom, here not so far down. This was done, and the depth
turned out to be about to our waists; but for a little time the boat
sped on as before. Planting our shoes firmly against the boulders of
the bottom as we slid along, we finally gained the upper hand, and then
it was an easy matter to reach the shore. Hardly had we done this when
the _Nell_ came tearing down in the same fashion. We rushed into the
water as far as we dared, and they pulled with a will till they came to
us, when they all jumped into the water and we tugged the boat ashore,
just in time to plunge in again and help the _Cañonita_ in the same
way. Dinner over, the rapid was examined and it was discovered that by
pulling straight out into it clear of the rocks, we could easily get
through. This was accordingly done and one after the other the boats
sped down as if towed by an express train. Then we ran a number of
smaller ones with no trouble, and toward evening arrived at a place
where the entire river dropped into a sag, before falling over some
very bad rapids. We avoided the sag by keeping close to the left bank,
and rounded a little point into a broad eddy, across which we could
sail with impunity. Then we landed on a rocky point at the head of the
first bad plunge, the beginning of Disaster Falls, where the _No-Name_
was wrecked two years before. At this place we camped for the night.
The descent altogether here is about fifty feet. In the morning all the
cargoes were taken over the rocks to the foot of the first fall, and
the boats were cautiously worked down along the edge to where the
cargoes were, where they were reloaded and lowered to the head of the
next descent, several hundred yards. Here the cargoes were again taken
out and carried over the rocks down to a quiet bay. This took till very
late and everyone was tired out, but the boats were carried and pushed
on skids up over the rocks for twenty or thirty yards, past the worst
of the fall, and then lowered into the water to be let down the rest of
the way by lines. Two had to be left there till the following day. We
had found a one hundred pound sack of flour lying on a high rock, where
it had been placed at the time of the wreck of the _No-Name_, and Andy
that day made our dinner biscuits out of it. Though it was two years
old the bread tasted perfectly good; and this is a tribute to the
climate, as well as to the preservative qualities of a coating of wet
flour. This coating was about half an inch thick, and outside were a
cotton flour-sack and a gunny bag. The flour was left on the rock, and
may be there yet. Not far below this we came to Lower Disaster Falls,
which a short portage enabled us to circumnavigate and go on our way.
The current was so swift all the time that objects on shore flitted
past as they do when one looks from a window of a railway train. Just
opposite our camp on this night the cliff was almost perpendicular from
the water’s edge to the height of about twenty-five hundred feet. The
walls seemed very close together, only a narrow strip of sky being
visible. As we sat after supper peering aloft at this ribbon of the
heavens, the stars in the clear sky came slowly out like some wonderful
transformation scene, and just on the edge of the opposite wall,
resembling an exquisite and brilliant jewel, appeared the constellation
of the Harp. Immediately the name “Cliff of the Harp” suggested itself
and from that moment it was so called. Here and there we discovered
evidences of the former journey, but nothing to indicate that human
beings had ever before, that been below Disaster Falls. There we saw
the same indications of an early disaster which Powell had noticed on
the first trip, a rusty bake-oven, some knives and forks and tin
plates, in the sand at the foot of the second fall. The day after the
Cliff of the Harp camp we began by making a line-portage around a very
ugly place, which took the whole morning. In the afternoon there was
another similar task, so that by night we had made only three or four
miles, and camped at the beginning of a decidedly forbidding stretch.
Just below us were three sharp rapids which received the name of
Triplet Tails. A great deal of work was required to pass these, and
then we ran three or four in good style, which brought us, in the late
afternoon, to where the whole river spread out amongst innumerable
rocks and for more than half a mile the water was a solid sheet of
milky foam, sending up the usual wild roar, which echoed and echoed
again and again amongst the cliffs around and above us. Some one
proposed the name of “Hell’s Half-Mile” for this terrible place and the
idea was at once adopted, so appropriate did it seem. The turmoil of
the dashing waters was almost deafening, and, even when separated by
only a few feet, we could only communicate with each other by shouting
at the top of our lungs. It was a difficult task to get our little
ships safely below this half-mile, but it was finally accomplished, and
on we went in search of the next dragon’s claw. At our camp the fire in
some way got into a pine grove and soon was crackling enough to rival
the noise of the rapid. The lower region seemed now to be sending its
flames up through the bottom of the gorge and the black smoke rolled
into the sky far above the top of the walls. Many and varied were our
experiences in this magnificent canyon, which for picturesqueness and
beauty rivals even the Grand Canyon, though not on such a giant scale.
Its passage would probably be far easier at low water. At last, one
evening, as the soft twilight was settling into the chasm, a strange,
though agreeable silence, that seemed almost oppressive, fell around
us. The angry waters ceased their roaring. We slid along on a smooth,
even river, and suddenly emerged into a pretty little park, a mile
long, bounded by cliffs only some six hundred feet high. Running our
boats up into the mouth of a quiet river entering from the left we tied
them up and were quickly established in the most comfortable camp since
Brown’s Park. We were at the mouth of Yampa River. From a wonderful
echo which repeated a sentence of ten words, we called the place Echo
Park. Such an echo in Europe would be worth a fortune. The Echo Rock is
shown on page 203.
Canyon of Lodore at Triplet Falls. Canyon of Lodore at Triplet Falls.
Cliffs about 2500 feet. River about 300 feet wide.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Here a stop was made for several days, and one evening some of us took
a boat and went up the Yampa a little distance. The walls were vertical
and high, and the shadows thrown by the cliffs as we floated along
their base were fairly luminous, so bright was the moon. A song burst
from the rowers and was echoed from wall to wall till lost in the
silence of the night-enveloped wilderness. Nothing could have been more
beautiful, and the tranquillity was a joy to us after the days of
turmoil in Lodore.