An Island Park and a Split Mountain—The White River Runaways—Powell
Goes to Salt Lake—Failure to Get Rations to the Dirty Devil—On the
Rocks in Desolation—Natural Windows—An Ancient House—On the Back of the
Dragon at Last—Cataracts and Cataracts in the Wonderful Cataract
Canyon—A Lost Pack-Train—Naming the Echo Peaks.
With one of the boats from the camp in Echo Park Powell went up the
Yampa to see what might be there. Though this stream was tranquil at
its mouth, it proved to be rough farther up, and the party, in the four
days they were gone, were half worn out, coming back ragged, gaunt, and
ravenous, having run short of food. The Monday following their return,
our boats were again carefully packed, life-preservers were inflated,
and we went forth once more to the combat with the rapids. A few
minutes’ rowing carried us to the end of Echo Rock, which is a narrow
tongue of sandstone, about half a mile long and five hundred or six
hundred yards thick, and turning the bend we entered Whirlpool Canyon;
the cliffs, as soon as the other side of Echo Rock was passed, shooting
up into the air and enfolding us again in a canyon embrace. The depth
was quickly a couple of thousand feet with walls very close together
till, in three or four miles, we came to a violent rapid. A landing was
easily made and the boats lowered by lines. Below this the canyon was
much wider, and the rapids were not difficult. By the time the camping
hour came, we had put behind seven miles with five rapids and the extra
bad one where the boats were lowered. No whirlpools were encountered,
the stage of water not being favourable for them. As previously noted,
every stage of water produces different conditions, so that the
navigator on this river can never be certain of what he will find. Our
course through Whirlpool was neither difficult nor dangerous, as we
were able to make landings at the few bad places and ran the rest of
the rapids without damage of any kind. Only one camp was made in this
beautiful gorge, and there we slept, or tried to sleep, for two nights.
Myriads of ants swarmed over the spot and made every hour more or less
of a torment. They extended their investigations into every article
brought out of the boats. During the whole time their armies marched
and countermarched over, around, and through ourselves and everything
we possessed. We saw a number of mountain sheep in this canyon, but
owing to the quickness of the sheep, and the difficulty of pursuing
them over the wild cliffs, which they seemed to know well, we were
unable to bring any down.
Island Park. Green River. Island Park. Green River.
Between Whirlpool and Split-Mountain Canyons.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Entrance to Split-Mountain Canyon, Right Hand Cliffs. Entrance to
Split-Mountain Canyon, Right Hand Cliffs.
Heigth about 2000 feet.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
In Split-Mountain Canyon. In Split-Mountain Canyon.
Highest Walls 2700 feet.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Split-Mountain Canyon. Split-Mountain Canyon.
Looking down from top near entrance, 3000 feet.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Our second day’s run was uneventful through a superb gorge about
twenty-four hundred feet deep, and at a late hour in the afternoon,
just after we had run our worst rapid in fine style, we perceived the
great walls breaking away, and they soon melted off into rounded hills,
exquisitely coloured, as if painted by Nature in imitation of the
rainbow. The river spread out, between and around a large number of
pretty islands bearing thick cottonwood groves. The shallowness of the
water caused our keels to touch occasionally, but the current was
comparatively slow and we were not disturbed over it. Powell hesitated
as to calling this place Rainbow or Island Park, the choice eventually
falling to the latter. The valley is only three or four miles long in a
straight line. Shortly before sunset we had the disappointment of
reaching the end of it, and immediately below the place where we camped
the rocks closed sharply together once more. Here Powell determined
that he would push ahead of the main party, in order to make his way,
as soon as possible, to the Uinta Ute Agency, in order to communicate
with the outer world and ascertain if his plans for supply-trains were
moving on to success. He took the _Dean_, but Bishop was put in my
place because of his considerable experience in the Western country,
for there was no telling what they might encounter. On the morning of
July 7th, at daybreak, therefore, they were off, and speedily
disappeared from our sight within the rocks that arose below our camp.
A number of the remaining men climbed to the top of the left-hand side
of the “gate,” an altitude of about three thousand feet above camp, and
from there were able to see the _Emma Dean_ for a long distance,
working down through the rapids. The view from that altitude over the
surrounding country and into the canyon was something wonderful to
behold. A wild and ragged wilderness stretched out in all directions,
while down in the canyon—more of a narrow valley than a canyon after
the entrance was passed—the river swept along, marked, here and there,
by bars of white we knew to be rapids. Crags and pinnacles shot up from
every hand, and from this circumstance it was at first uncertain
whether to call the canyon Craggy or Split-Mountain. The latter was
decided on, as the river has sawed in two a huge fold of the strata—a
mountain split in twain. When we entered it with our boats to again
descend, we had gone but a little distance before massive beds of solid
rock came up straight out of the water on both sides and we were
instantly sailing in a deep, narrow canyon, the beds at length arching
over, down stream, high above our heads. It was an extraordinary sight.
While we were looking at the section of the great fold, we discovered
some mountain sheep far up the rocks. Though we fired at them the
circumstances were against our hitting, and they scampered scornfully
away from crag to crag, out of our sight. Then the canyon widened at
the top, and at the same time rapids appeared. They came by dozens, but
there were none that we could not master with certainty by hard work.
Wet from head to foot we continued this labour for three days, and then
the rocks, the “Ribbon Beds,” turned over and disappeared beneath the
water just as they had come out of it above. The low stage of the river
made this canyon difficult, so far as exertion was concerned, and the
rapids would perhaps be far easier during the spring flood.
Men of the 1871 Expedition of an Abandoned Cabin Opposite the Mouth of
the Uinta River. Men of the 1871 Expedition of an Abandoned Cabin
Opposite the Mouth of the Uinta River.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
We were now in Wonsits Valley, the longest expansion of the walls above
Black Canyon. Near our camp, which was on a soft, grassy bank beside
smooth-flowing waters, some picture writings were found, the first
indications, since the wreckage at Disaster Falls, outside of
occasional signs of Powell’s other party, that human beings had ever
been in the country. The tail-piece at the end of the preface to this
volume is a reduction of a drawing I made of the largest figure, which
was about four feet high. The river now flowed gently between low banks
covered in many places with cottonwoods, and it required hard labour of
a different kind to get the boats along. Signs of Utes began to appear,
and one morning a fine fellow, gaily dressed, and mounted on a splendid
horse, rode into camp with a “How—how!” Farther on we came to him
again, with his squaw, a good-looking young woman, very well dressed in
a sort of navy blue flannel, and wearing numerous ornaments. We ferried
them across the river, and afterwards found they were runaways from
White River,—an elopement in reality.
The Runaways. White River Utes. The Runaways. White River Utes.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Canyon of Desolation. Canyon of Desolation.
Walls 2000 feet.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
A Halt for Observations. A Halt for Observations.
Second Powell Expedition.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
After a good deal of hard rowing we finally reached the mouth of the
Uinta. Thompson went up to the Agency, about forty miles away, and
found that Powell had gone out to Salt Lake. When the latter came back
to the Agency it was to direct Thompson to go on with our party, while
Powell went out again to see about the ration-supply at the mouth of
the Dirty Devil. The men sent there had been unable to find the place,
or, indeed, to get anywhere near it. Powell was to meet us again at the
foot of Gray Canyon, about one hundred and fifty miles farther down.
When our supplies had been brought from the Agency and all was ready,
we proceeded on our way, passing the elopers near the end of the
valley, where they were very happy in a good camp with a fresh deer and
plenty of vermilion, which they used liberally their faces. Below this
the river was full of beaver, and had Pattie or some of the early
trappers been there, they could have reaped a rich harvest. The current
was slow, and Thompson read Emerson aloud as we drifted. Gradually the
hills began to grow rocky, and then distinct low cliffs appeared, till
finally we discovered ourselves fairly within the walls of another
canyon, which from the barren character of its cliffs is called the
Canyon of Desolation. It is ninety-seven miles long, and immediately at
its foot is Gray Canyon, thirty-six miles long. Then comes Gunnison
Valley, and it was there that Powell was to return to us. The first
indication of descending waters was a slight swiftness, the river
having narrowed up to its canyon-character. At one place it doubled
back on itself, forming in the bend a splendid amphitheatre which was
called after Sumner of the former party. This beautiful wall, about one
thousand feet high, was carved and sculptured by the forces of erosion
in a most wonderful manner. It is shown on page 205. After a few miles
between such walls we began to expect rapids, and hardly had the
expectation been formed when it was gratified. An increasing roar came
to our ears, and as we rounded a bend three were discovered before us
within the space of half a mile. The water had been continually falling
till now it was so low that these rapids exhibited a startling number
of rocks amidst the foam. We believed we could run them, and we did.
The first was cleared easily. In the second the _Nell_ struck a
submerged rock, but glanced over it without damage, while our boat
landed squarely on the top, for it could not be seen from above, and,
after a momentary quiver, hung there as the wave which lifted us upon
it receded. The water roared and boiled furiously about us, but did not
quite come into the boat. It was impossible to dip the oars from the
stationary boat on account of the force of the current. At last Hillers
perceived that the sticking point was almost under the extremity of the
keel. Getting out cautiously over the stern he succeeded in touching
the top of the rock, and, thus lightened, the _Dean_ shot forward,
though not before Hillers, who had not let go of the stern rowlock, was
able to leap on board. The _Cañonita_ fared still worse. Following us
too close, she tried to pass, but struck another rock, crushing in her
side, though floating down nevertheless. An hour and a half spent on
her put her in good order again, and away we went, running a third and
a fourth with no trouble. The walls were now about two thousand feet
high and we felt quite at home. Through some of the upper narrow
promontories of sandstone there were large holes, or arches, some of
them probably a hundred or more feet in diameter. They were similar to
the Hole in the Wall, shown in the cut on page 41, only on a much
larger scale. The next day, before stopping for dinner, we ran nine
rapids with no accident. The river was wider than in the upper canyons,
and while the low state of the water made harder work and pounded the
boats more, I believe that on the whole it was an advantage. The
current was less fierce and consequently the boats were always more
controllable. Yet when the water falls below a certain point the danger
of striking rocks is so much increased that a rapid which, at a little
higher stage would be easy to run must be avoided entirely by a portage
or a let-down. The waves at low water are also smaller and hence less
likely to upset a boat.
Uinte Ute Tipi and a Summer Shelter and Outlook, Showing the Old-time
Notched Log for a Ladder. Uinte Ute Tipi and a Summer Shelter and
Outlook, Showing the Old-time Notched Log for a Ladder.
Photograph by J.K. HILLERS, U.S. Geol. Survey.
Dellenbaugh Butte, Green River near the San Rafael. Dellenbaugh Butte,
Green River near the San Rafael.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
In many places we would lower a boat by lines near the shore, with two
men in her, and when a rock appeared they fended her off, or jumped
into the water and eased the craft along, touching bottom where they
could. This worked very well for this place and the stage of water,
though on this river one must ever be ready to adapt himself to
differing conditions. Rapids were very numerous, but we succeeded in
passing them in one way or another without seriously injuring the
boats. The walls grew to magnificent proportions. At one camp we could
see, on the very top of the cliff opposite, an object that from our
position was the counterpart of a log cabin. Tall pines grew around it
and the deception was complete. The cliff being twenty-four hundred
feet high, the “cabin” must, in reality have been of huge size; but we
applied the name “Log-Cabin Cliff” to the place. At a heavy descent,
where the _Emma Dean_ of the first expedition was swamped, we took no
chances and made a careful let-down; a little farther on we did the
same thing again. This method of passing a rapid is not romantic, but
our object was not to perform spectacular feats but to accomplish the
work in hand; so wherever there was any doubt as to the safety of
running a rapid we adopted the prudent course. It was difficult to
decide sometimes just where to draw the line; in one rapid we tried to
go through, the _Nell_ struck a rock, knocking Thompson out and nearly
capsizing, but no real harm was done. The walls increased to nearly
three thousand feet, and the rapids followed each other in quick
succession every day. At one point we saw, a couple of thousand feet
above on the right a gigantic example of the natural arches. Beyond
this the walls began to grow somewhat lower. Our life through this
gorge, as well as through some others, might be described by the
monotonous phrase, “Got up, ran rapids, went to bed.” There was no time
to do anything else. At night we were always sleepy and tired.
Fortunately there were here fine places to camp—plenty of room, with
smooth sand to sleep on. As soon as we halted for the night we would
don our dry clothes from the rubber bags, and, when supper was over,
would prepare a bed. If any kind of boughs or willows were to be had,
we cut a quantity and, laying them in regular order near together,
formed a sort of mattress which was very comfortable. If these were not
to be had, the softest spot of sand was the next choice. In putting the
river suit on in the morning, there was often something of a shock, for
it was not always thoroughly dry. At length the welcome end of
Desolation came, indicated by a lowering of the walls and a break,
where we were surprised to see a solitary lame horse, but the next
canyon, Gray, formed immediately. This was at first called Lignite
Canyon, but was afterwards renamed on account of the grey colour of the
walls; an unusual feature. The work here was similar to that in
Desolation, and we were not sorry when we came to the foot of it, there
going into camp to await the return of Powell. One of our flags was
planted at the end of an island below the canyon mouth, so that he
might see it. Opposite our camp was a very striking pinnacle then
called Cathedral Butte, but later changed to Gunnison. Here we took the
boats out and gave them a good overhauling, which they badly needed.
The descent through Desolation and Gray had been nearly six hundred
feet.
Gunnison Butte. Gunnison Butte.
Head of Gunnison Valley and foot of Gray Canyon.
Powell Expedition of 1871 repairing boats.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Fishing one evening, Hillers thought his hook had caught in a snag, but
he was greatly surprised after carefully pulling in his line, to find
on the end of it a sluggish fish four feet long, and as large around as
a stovepipe. We were to wait here till the 3d of September for Powell,
but on the 29th of August three shots were heard in the valley outside;
the Major’s signal. W. C. Powell and I were sent to investigate. We
found him, with a companion, on the other bank, opposite the flag we
had put up. Arriving near our station, a man was sent to take their
horses down to their camp, about five miles below, and they went with
us on the boats. Hamblin, the man with Powell, was not altogether
comfortable in some of the swift places. As we cleared the high butte
marking the end of Gray Canyon, we perceived, stretching away to the
westward from it, a beautiful line of azure-blue cliffs, wonderfully
buttressed and carved. At first these were called the Henry Cliffs, but
afterward Henry was applied to some mountains and the cliffs were
called Azure. At the camp we found another man, like the first a Mormon
and, as we learned later by intimate acquaintance, both of fine quality
and sterling merit. The supplies Powell had brought were three hundred
pounds of flour, some jerked beef, and about twenty pounds of sugar,
from a town on the Sevier called Manti, almost due west of our position
about eighty miles in an air line. The pack-train having failed to
reach the mouth of the Dirty Devil, these additional rations were to
carry us on to the next station, the Crossing of the Fathers; but they
were not enough. The other man with Hamblin was a cousin of the same
name, and when they rode away one evening as the sun was going down, we
were sorry to part with them. Their course lay through a wild, desolate
country, but we learned later that they had no trouble, though the day
after leaving us they ran upon a large camp of Utes. Fortunately the
Utes were friendly.
Labyrinth Canyon, Trinalcove. Labyrinth Canyon, Trinalcove.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
For our part, we pushed off in our boats and headed for the Crossing of
the Fathers with some misgivings on the food question. A large amount
of mail had been brought in, and we enjoyed the newspapers, although
they were weeks old. Some monthly magazines were a great boon. For a
time the stream was placid, allowing us to tie the boats together and
drift again for a little while. Thompson and the Major read aloud from
Whittier, the men sang “Sweet Evelina,” and all appreciated the
opportunity for this brief relaxation. Here and there evidences of
crossings were noted, for it was in this valley that Gunnison went over
on the trip that proved fatal to him, and here for years the Old
Spanish Trail, which Wolfskill inaugurated, led many eastward and
westward, while Utes and other Amerinds had used it long before that.
Indeed, as before mentioned, it was for a long time the first locality,
coming up from the Grand Wash, where the stream could easily be
crossed; a distance of about six hundred miles. Many strangely eroded
cliffs and buttes appeared as we descended, and one of these, near the
mouth of the San Rafael, was named after me. At one place we saw some
springs bubbling up from the bottom of an inlet, one of which was
remarkable because of its size and power. Its jet was five or six
inches in diameter, and rose six or eight inches above the surface, the
water being two or three feet in depth. They were called Undine
Springs. At the San Rafael a heavy rainstorm came up, and presently we
detected a loud roaring we could not account for. At last, however, it
was discovered to arise from the accumulated rain-water which was
pouring over a near-by cliff in a muddy torrent. The whole country was
extremely bare and barren, mostly rock, and the rain gathered as on the
roof of a house. The river had narrowed up before we reached the San
Rafael and had entered low, broken walls. The current was rather swift,
but there were no rapids. As we went on, the sight of the rain cascades
falling with varying volume and colour, some chocolate, some amber, was
very beautiful. They continued for a time after the rain had ceased,
and then, as if the flood-gates had been closed, they vanished, to
reappear every time it began to rain afresh. Before long the cliffs had
reached one thousand feet in altitude, and we were fairly within
Labyrinth Canyon, which begins its existence at the mouth of the San
Rafael. Many of the rain cascades in the afternoon of this day were
perfectly clear, and often fell several hundreds of feet, vanishing in
spray, and presenting varied and exquisite effects in combination with
the rich tones of the wet brown sandstone, and the background of dark
grey sky. They ever increased in number, and directly opposite that
night’s camp one fell straight down for about two hundred feet,
disappeared in mist to gather again on a ledge below, and shot out once
more, a delicate silvery thread against the dark mass of the cliff. The
next day we passed a group of three canyons entering at one point, to
which the name Trinalcove was given, as they appeared from the river
like alcoves rather than canyons. The river was now very winding with
walls frequently vertical. There were no rapids, though the water as a
rule moved somewhat swiftly. The days were growing short, and the night
air had an autumnal chill about it that made the camp-fire comforting.
At the end of sixty-two miles the walls broke up into buttes and
pinnacles, thousands of them, suggesting immense organs, cathedrals,
and almost anything the imagination pictured. One resembling a mighty
cross lying down was in consequence called the “Butte of the Cross.”[1]
This was practically the end of Labyrinth Canyon, and sweeping around a
beautiful bend, where the rocks again began to come together, we were
in the beginning of the next canyon of the series, two years before
named Stillwater. At the suggestion of Beaman, the bend was called
Bonito. On leaving our camp at this place the walls rapidly ran up, the
current grew swifter, but the river remained smooth. The canyon was
exceedingly “close,” the rocks rising vertically from the edge of the
water. There were few places where a landing could be made, but luckily
no landing was necessary, except for night. The darkness fell before we
found a suitable camp-ground. Some of our supplies had now to be used
with caution, for it became evident that we would run short of food
before we could get any more.
[1] Actually a pinnacle and a butte—not a single mass.{See page 275}.
Bonito Bend, between Labyrinth and Stillwater Canyons. Bonito Bend,
between Labyrinth and Stillwater Canyons.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
The Butte of the Cross, between Labyrinth and Stillwater Canyons. The
Butte of the Cross, between Labyrinth and Stillwater Canyons.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Long ago, no one knows how long, we might have been able to purchase of
the natives who, a few miles below this camp, had tilled a small piece
of arable land in an alcove. Small huts for storage were found there in
the cliffs, and on a promontory, about thirty feet above the water,
were the ruins of stone buildings, one of which, twelve by twenty feet
in dimensions, had walls still standing about six feet high. The canyon
here was some six hundred feet wide; the walls about nine hundred feet
high, though the top of the plateau through which the canyon is carved
is at least fifteen hundred feet above the river. We discovered the
trail by which the old Puebloans had made their way in and out. Where
necessity called for it, poles and tree-trunks had been placed against
the rocks to aid the climbers. Some of our party trusted themselves to
these ancient ladders, and with the aid of a rope also, reached the
summit.
Beyond this place of ruins, the river flowed between walls not over
four hundred and fifty feet apart at the top. The current was about
three miles an hour, with scarcely a ripple, though it appeared much
swifter because of the nearness of the cliffs. At the end of seven
miles of winding canyon, there came a sharp turn to the east, which
brought into view, at the other end, another canyon of nearly equal
proportions and similar appearance. In the bottom of this flowed a
river of almost the same size as the Green. The waters of the two came
together with a good deal of a rush, the commingling being plainly
visible. Neither overwhelmed the other; it was a perfect union, and in
some respects it is quite appropriate that the combined waters of these
streams should have a special name to represent them. The new tributary
was Grand River, and when our boats floated on the united waters, we
were at last on the back of the Dragon. Away sped the current of the
Colorado, swirling along, spitefully lashing with its hungry tongue the
narrow sand-banks fringing the rugged shores, so that we scarcely knew
where to make a landing. Finally we halted on the right, constantly
watching the boats’ lines lest the sand should melt away and take our
little ships with it. Along the bases of the cliffs above the high
waters were narrow strips of rocky soil, supporting a few stunted
cottonwoods and hackberry trees, which, with some stramonium bushes in
blossom, were the sum total of vegetation. In every way the Junction is
a desolate place. It is the beginning of Cataract Canyon, and forty-one
miles must be put behind us before we would see its end—forty-one miles
of bad river, too. From a point not far up the Green, which we easily
reached with a boat, a number climbed out by means of a cleft about
fifty feet wide, taking the photographic outfit along. The country
above was a maze of crevices, pinnacles, and buttes, and it seemed an
impossibility for any human being to travel more than a few hundred
yards in any direction. The character of the place may best be
illustrated by stating that Steward, who had gone up by a different
route, was unable to reach us, though we could talk to him across a
fissure. Many of these breaks could be jumped, but some of them were
too wide for safety. The surface was largely barren sandstone, only a
patch of sand here and there sustaining sometimes a bush or stunted
cedar. It is the Land of Standing Rocks, as the Utes call it.
Head of Cataract Canyon, Looking down from Top of Walls near the
Junction of the Grand and Green. Head of Cataract Canyon, Looking down
from Top of Walls near the Junction of the Grand and Green.
Depth, 1300 feet.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
The supplies were now gone over and carefully and evenly divided, so
that an accident to one boat should not cripple us any more than
possible, and on Tuesday, the 19th of September, our bows were headed
down the Colorado. A few miles below the Junction, a trail was seen
coming down a canyon on the left, showing that the Utes have always
known how to find the place. If Macomb had been properly guided he
could have reached it. The familiar roar of rapids soon came to our
ears, and thenceforth there was no respite from them. The first was so
ugly that the boats were lowered by lines, the second was much the
same, and then we reached a third which was even worse. The water was
now growing cold, and as one’s clothes are always wet when running
rapids or portaging on the Colorado, we felt the effects of the deep
shadows, combined with the cold drenchings. Our dinners were quickly
prepared, for we were on allowance and Andy was not bothered with
trying to satisfy our appetites; he cooked as much as directed, and if
there were hungry men around it was not his fault. We all felt that
short rations were so much ahead of nothing that there was no
grumbling. The volume of water was now nearly double what it had been
on the Green, and the force of the rapids was greatly augmented. Huge
boulders on the bottom, which the Green would have turned over only
once or twice, here were rolled along, when they started, for many
yards sensible to not the eye but to the ear. This was a distinct
feature of Cataract Canyon and shows the declivity to be very great and
the boulders to be well worn. The declivity for a few miles is greater
than in Lodore, perhaps the greatest on the river. Sometimes in
Cataract the rumble of these boulders was mistaken for distant thunder.
At one rapid I remember that a rock many feet square was swaying from
the current. After dinner, the boats were lowered over the rapid, fall,
cataract, or whatever it might be called, before which we had paused,
and then in short order over four more tremendous ones. When we had run
a fifth, in which we received a violent shaking-up, we went into camp
on the left bank at the head of another roarer, or pair of them, and
hastened to throw off our saturated clothes and put on the dry from out
the friendly rubber sacks. I never before understood the comfort of
being dry. The topographers recorded a good day’s work: nine miles and
eight powerful cataracts. Cataract, we decided was the proper name for
these plunges, for though they were by no means vertical, they were
more violent than what is ordinarily called a rapid. This was one part
of the canyons where White, in his imaginary journey, found an easy
passage! The next day Powell took me with him on a climb to the top. We
had little trouble in getting out. On the way back the Major’s cut-off
arm was on the rock side of a gulch we had followed up, and I found it
necessary, two or three times, to place myself where he could step on
my knee, as his stump had a tendency to throw him off his balance. Had
he fallen at these points the drop would have been four hundred or five
hundred feet. I mention this to show how he never permitted his
one-armed condition to interfere with his doing things. The walls here
were eighteen hundred feet, a gain of three hundred feet over the
Junction. While we were away the men below had lowered the boats over
two rapids, in one of which the _Nell_ broke loose and went down alone
with her cargo on board. As good fortune will have it, there is
frequently an eddy or two at the foot of a rapid and into one of these
she ran. By a desperate exertion of Hillers in swimming she was
regained.
Side Canyon of Cataract Canyon. Side Canyon of Cataract Canyon.
1500 feet deep—20 feet wide at bottom, 300 feet at top.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
A boat must never be allowed to move without men aboard or lines
attached. This would seem to go without saying, but for fear it does
not I mention it for the sake of any who may want to try their skill at
this work. In the morning there was a pleasant smooth stretch for some
distance, but it was soon passed, and cataract followed cataract till
we counted ten. Seven we ran with exhilarating speed; the other three
demanding more respectful treatment, we lowered the boats by lines,
when the noon hour was at hand and a halt was made for refreshments,
five miles from the starting-point of the morning. As soon as we had
consumed the allowance of bread, bacon, and coffee, we took up our task
by making two very difficult and tiring let-downs; that is, manoeuvring
the boats in and out, among and over, the rocks alongshore by lines,
with one or two men aboard, always on the lookout to prevent being
caught by outer currents. This brought us face to face with a furious
fall, but one that seemed free from obstructions, and the order was to
run it. Accordingly, over we went, the boats shipping the great seas
below and each one tapping the keel on a submerged rock at the start.
Owing to the trend of the canyon, and the lateness of the season, the
sun now passed early from sight, the walls throwing the bottom of the
gorge into deep shadow with a wintry chill that was quickly perceptible
to us in our wet clothing. The result was that our teeth chattered in
spite of all we could do to stop the uncomfortable performance, and our
lips turned blue. To be soaked all day long near the end of September,
in our climate, is not an agreeable condition. Though less than seven
miles was made this day we were forced to stop when the shadow fell and
make a camp at the first opportunity. It was only half-past three
o’clock, but it had been sunset to us for half an hour. Thus each
working day was sadly shortened, for even where the bends were most
favourable, the warm sun shone upon us only for the middle hours. The
walls were close together and very straight; they grew higher and more
threatening with every mile of progress, so that it seemed as if
another day or two would shut out the sun from the bottom altogether.
On account of our limited larder, if for no other reason, we were
obliged to push ahead as rapidly as possible. The next day we were at
it early, easily running the first cataract, but just below it an
immediate landing was imperative at the head of another which no man in
his senses would think of running. Some hard work put us below that,
and then came one far worse. The morning was gone before we saw its
foam receding behind us. The following day, on summing up, after much
severe toil, and stopping to repair boats, it was found that we had
gone only a mile and a half! At this rate, we thought, when would we
see the end of this gorge? But in the morning our wet clothes were put
on without a murmur from any one, and once more we renewed the attack.
The worst fall the next day was a drop of about twenty feet in twenty
yards; a sharp plunge of the river in one mass. As it seemed free from
rocks in the middle a run was decided on. We therefore pulled squarely
into it. On both sides the river was beaten to solid foam amongst the
rocks, but in the middle, where we were, there was a clean chute,
followed by a long tail of ugly waves. We were entirely successful,
though the waves broke over my head till they almost took my breath
away. The walls reached a height of twenty-five hundred feet, seeming
to us almost perpendicular on both sides. It was the narrowest deep
chasm we had yet seen, and beneath these majestic cliffs we ourselves
appeared mere pigmies, creeping about with our feeble strength to
overcome the tremendous difficulties. The loud reverberation of the
roaring water, the rugged rocks, the toppling walls, the narrow sky,
all combined to make this a fearful place, which no pen can adequately
describe. Another day the Major and I climbed out, reaching an
altitude, some distance back from the brink, 3135 feet above the river.
The day after this climb the walls ran up to about twenty-seven hundred
feet, apparently in places absolutely vertical, though Stanton, who
came through here in 1890, said he did not think they were anywhere
perpendicular to the top. The tongue of a bend we found always more or
less broken, but in the curve the cliffs certainly had all the effect
of absolute perpendicularity, and in one place I estimated that if a
rock should fall from the brink it would have struck on or near our
boat. This shows, at any rate, that the walls were very straight. The
boats seemed mere wisps of straw by comparison, and once when I saw one
which had preceded ours, lying at the end of a clear stretch, I was
startled by the insignificance of the craft on which our lives
depended. Beaman tried to take some photographs which should give this
height in full, but the place was far beyond the power of any camera.
In this locality there seemed to be no possibility of a man’s finding a
way to the summit. I concluded that at high water this part of Cataract
Canyon would probably annihilate any human being venturing into it,
though it is possible high water would make it easier. Where there was
driftwood it was in tremendous piles, wedged together in inextricable
confusion; hundreds of tree-trunks, large and small, battered and cut
and limbless, with the ends pounded into a spongy lot of splinters. The
interstices between the large logs were filled with smaller stuff, like
boughs, railroad-ties, and pieces of dressed timber which had been
swept away from the region above the Union Pacific Railway. Picture
this narrow canyon twenty-seven hundred feet deep, at high water, with
a muddy booming torrent at its bottom, sweeping along logs and all
kinds of floating débris, and then think of being in there with a boat!
Side Canyon of Cataract Canyon. Side Canyon of Cataract Canyon.
See figures of men, centre foreground on brink of lower terrace.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Cataract Canyon, Right-hand Wall toward Lower End. Cataract Canyon,
Right-hand Wall toward Lower End.
Height about 2700 feet. Note figures of men near edge of water, lower
right-hand corner. They show as very small upright dark lines.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
We proceeded as best we could with all caution. Every move was planned
and carried out with the exactness of a battle; as if the falls were
actual enemies striving to discover our weakness. One practice was to
throw sticks in above them, and thus ascertain the trend of the chief
currents, which enabled us to approach intelligently. The river here
was not more than four hundred feet wide. As we continued, the canyon
finally widened, and at one place there was a broad, rocky beach on the
left. The opposite wall was nearly three thousand feet high. Beaman, by
setting his camera far back on the rocks, was able to get a view to the
top, with us in it by the river, while we were trying to work the boats
past a rapid. This photograph is reproduced on this page {285}, and the
figures, though very small, may be plainly seen. Not far below this the
walls closed in again. Powell and Thompson tried to climb out, but they
failed on the first trial and had no time to make a fresh start. They
came back to camp and as soon as an early supper was over we started
on—about five o’clock. The walls ran close together and at the water
were perfectly vertical for a hundred feet or so, then there was a
terrace. As we sailed down, the river was suddenly studded with
pinnacles of rock, huge boulders or masses fallen from the heights. By
steering carefully we could pass among these and, keeping in the
dividing line of the current, make for the head of a rocky island, on
each side of which the waters plunged against the cliffs with great
force as they dropped away to a lower level. The danger lay in getting
too far over either way, and it was somewhat difficult to dodge the
pinnacles and steer for the island at the same time. The _Cañonita_
went on the wrong side of one, and we held our breath, for it seemed as
if she could not retrieve her position in the dividing current, but she
did. As we approached the head of the island our keel bumped several
times on the rocks, while the current changed from the simple dividing
line and ran everywhere. At length we reached the shallow water, and as
the keel struck gently on a rock we were overboard, soon pulling the
boat on the island, where the others quickly followed. By hauling the
craft down the right-hand side for about half the island’s length, we
were able to pull directly across the tail of waves from the right-hand
rapid, and avoid being swept against the cliff on the left where the
whole river set. So close did every boat go that the oars on that side
could not be used for a moment or two; and then we were past. At a
higher stage of water this place would be much simpler. The river
became serene; night was falling; we drifted on with the current till a
roar issuing from the darkness ahead admonished us to halt. Some broken
rocks on the right gave a footing and there we remained till morning.
In the night it rained, and the rain continued into the daylight till
cascades came leaping and plunging from everywhere into the canyon. Two
of these opposite our camp were exceedingly beautiful. One was about
two feet wide and the other five. For one thousand feet they made a
clear plunge, then vanished in spray, feathery and beautiful. These
rain cascades are a delightful feature of the country and some day will
be famous. Soon Millecrag Bend, marking the end of Cataract Canyon,
came in sight. The walls were only broken by a deep canyon valley
coming in on the left, and the next canyon. Narrow, then began, but it
was not one with difficult waters, and, being only nine miles in
length, we were soon through it. At its foot was the mouth of the Dirty
Devil and the beginning of Mound Canyon, which was later combined with
Monument under the name of Glen.
Our rations were now very low. For some time, each man had been allowed
for a meal, only a thin slice of bacon, a chunk of bread about the size
of one’s fist, and all the coffee he desired. At long intervals a pot
of Andy’s rare bean-soup was added to the feast. It was necessary,
therefore, to push on with all haste, or we would be starving. The
_Cañonita_ was consequently taken out and “cached” under a huge rock
which had fallen against the cliff, forming a natural house. Filling
her with sand to keep her from “drying” to pieces we left her, feeling
sure the party which was to come after her the next spring would find
her safe. She was forty feet above low water. We now went ahead with
good speed, leaving as much work as possible for the prospective
_Cañonita_ party to perform. All through Glen Canyon we found evidences
of Puebloan occupation: house ruins, storage caves, etc. The river was
tame, though the walls, about one thousand to sixteen hundred feet
high, were beautiful, and often, in places, vertical. The low stage of
water rendered progress somewhat difficult at times, but nevertheless
we made fairly good time and on the 5th of October passed the San Juan,
a shallow stream at this season, entering through a wide canyon of
about the same depth as that of the Colorado, that is, about twelve
hundred or fourteen hundred feet. A short distance below it we stopped
at the Music Temple, where the Rowlands and Dunn had carved their
names. Reaching the vicinity of Navajo Mountain, Powell thought of
climbing it, but an inquiry as to the state of the larder received from
Andy the unpleasant information that we were down to the last of the
supplies; two or three more scant meals would exhaust everything edible
in the boats. So no halt was made. On the contrary, the oars were plied
more vigorously, and on the 6th we saw a burned spot in the bushes on
the right,—there were alluvial bottoms in the bends,—and though this
burned spot was not food, it was an indication that there were human
beings about; we hoped it indicated also our near approach to the
Crossing of the Fathers. Horses and men had recently been there. Noon
came and the surroundings were as silent, unbroken, untrodden as they
had been anywhere above the burned spot. Though there was little reason
for it, we halted for a dinner camp, and Andy brought out a few last
scraps for us to devour. Hillers threw in a line baited with a small
bit of bacon and pulled out a fish, then a second and several. It was
the miracle of the loaves and fishes over again!
Bend after bend was turned and left behind, and still no Crossing, but
late in the afternoon a shot was heard; then we saw a white rag on a
pole; then we landed and beheld a large pile of rations, in charge of
three men. These men, Dodds, Bonnemort, and Riley, as we were days
overdue, had about made up their minds we were lost, and had
contemplated departing in the morning and leaving the rations to their
fate. Riley and Bonnemort were prospectors, who remained only to see us
and make some inquiries about the river above. They told me afterward
we were the roughest-looking set of men they had ever seen. Our clothes
were about used up.
The Town of Bluff. The Town of Bluff.
Upper Valley of the San Juan River.
Photograph by CHARLES GOODMAN.
Glen Canyon Wall. Glen Canyon Wall.
About 1200 feet high. Homogeneous sandstone on top of thin bedded
sandstone.
Photograph by J. FENNEMORE, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Glen Canyon. Glen Canyon.
Sandstone wall about 1200 feet high.
Photograph by J. FENNEMORE, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Glen Canyon, Sentinel Rock. Glen Canyon, Sentinel Rock.
Between the Crossing of the Fathers and Lee’s Ferry—about 300 feet
high.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Powell prepared to go to Salt Lake, about five hundred miles away, to
make preparations for our winter’s mountain work, and we all wrote
letters to send out. On the 10th of October they left us, Hillers going
with Powell, while we were to run down thirty-five miles farther to the
mouth of the Paria, and there cache the two boats for the winter.
Steward was now taken sick, and though some Navajos who came along
kindly offered to carry him with them to Kanab, he preferred to stay
with us, so we stretched him out, during our runs, on one of the
cabins. This was not entirely comfortable for him, but the river was
smooth and easy as far as the Paria, so there was no danger of spilling
him off, and he got on fairly well. At the Paria, Jones, who had made a
misstep in one of the boats at the Junction and injured one leg,
developed inflammatory rheumatism in it, and also in the other. Andy at
Millecrag Bend had put on his shoe with an unseen scorpion in it, the
sting of which caused him to grow thin and pale. Bishop’s old wound
troubled him; Beaman and W. C. Powell also felt “under the weather,” so
that of the whole party left here, Thompson and I were the only ones
who remained entirely well. Arriving at the Paria, we hid the boats for
the winter, and waited for the pack-train that was to bring us
provisions, and take us out to Kanab, which would be headquarters. The
pack-train, however, was misled by a man who pretended to be acquainted
with the trail, and we ate up all the food we had before it arrived. It
came over an extraordinary path. Lost on top of the Paria Plateau, it
was only able to reach us by the discovery of a singular old trail
coming down the two-thousand-foot cliffs three miles up the Paria.
While waiting we had examined the immediate neighbourhood and had
climbed to the summit of some sandstone peaks on the left, where the
wall of Glen Canyon breaks away to the southward. The view was superb.
Mountains, solid and solitary, rose up here and there, and lines of
cliffs, strangely coloured, stretched everywhere across the wide
horizon, while from our feet, like a veritable huge writhing dragon,
Marble Canyon zigzagged its long, dark line into the blue distance, its
narrow tributaries looking like the monster’s many legs. I took it into
my head to try to shoot from there into the water of Glen Canyon
beneath us, and borrowed Bishop’s 44-calibre Remington revolver for the
purpose. When I pulled the trigger I was positively startled by the
violence of the report, a deafening shock like a thousand thunder-claps
in one; then dead silence. Next, from far away there was a rattle as of
musketry, and peal after peal of the echoing shot came back to us. The
interval of silence was timed on another trial and was found to be
exactly twenty seconds.[2] The result was always the same, and from
this unusual echo we named the place Echo Peaks.
[2] Should be twenty-four seconds.
I had made Jones a pair of crutches, by means of which he was able to
hobble painfully around, and by the time the pack-train was ready to
start for the settlement, about one hundred miles away, he could bear
being lifted upon a horse. Steward, also, was able to ride, and with a
number of us walking we left the Paria behind.
November’s sharp days were upon us. We had only the remains of our
summer clothing and few blankets, so that when the thermometer
registered 11 degrees F. above zero we did not dispute it.