Park remarkable. Even if the wonderful geysers, hot springs, and
many-colored pools were taken away,--locked up in a strong box and
hidden from sight as jewels often are,--the more familiar phases of
natural scenery, such as mountains, rivers, lakes, and waterfalls would
make it one of the wonder-places of America. On the eastern boundary is
the great Absaroka Range, with peaks rising over 10,000 feet. In the
northwest corner is the Gallatin Range, dominated by the Electric Peak,
11,155 feet high, covered with snow, and so charged with electricity as
to make the surveyor's transit almost useless. The Yellowstone and
Gardiner Rivers, which join at the northern boundary, are separated
within the park by a range of mountains of which the highest is Mount
Washburne (10,350 feet), named for the leader of the expedition of 1870.
Farther south, and midway between the Upper Geyser Basin and the
Yellowstone Lake, is the Continental Divide. The road passes between two
small lakes, one of which discharges its waters into the Atlantic Ocean
by way of the Yellowstone, the Missouri, and the Gulf of Mexico, while
the other flows into the Pacific through Snake River and the Columbia.
From a point a few miles to the east Lake Shoshone may be seen far
below, and seeming to tower directly above it, but really fifty miles
away, just beyond the southern boundary of the park, are the three
sentinels of the Teton Range, the highest 13,741 feet above the sea. The
entire park is in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, its lowest level
being over 6000 feet elevation.
[Illustration: THE GROTTO GEYSER]
The park is full of lakes and streams varying in size from the hundreds
of little pools and brooks, hidden away among the rocks, to the great
Yellowstone Lake, twenty miles in width, and the picturesque river of
the same name. Here and there are beautiful cascades which one would go
miles to see anywhere else, but the surfeited travelers give them only a
careless glance as the stages pass without stopping. The Kepler Cascades
tumble over the rocks in a series of falls of more than a hundred feet,
making a charming veil of white lace, against a dark background of rocks
and pines. The Gibbon Falls, eighty feet high, are nearly as attractive,
while the little Rustic Falls, of sixty feet, in Golden Gate Canon, are
really quite delightful. These, and many others, are passed in
comparative indifference, for the traveler has already seen many
wonderful sights and knows that greater ones are yet in store. His
anticipations are realized with good measure running over, when at last
he catches his first glimpse of the great Canon of the Yellowstone.
With us this glimpse came at the Upper Falls, where the Yellowstone
River suddenly drops one hundred and twelve feet, suggesting the
American Fall at Niagara, though the volume of water is not so great. It
is more beautiful, however, because of the wildness of the scenery.
Lower down, the river takes another drop, falling to the very bottom of
the canon. Here the cataract is more than twice the height of Niagara,
and though lacking the width of the stream that makes the latter so
impressive, is in every respect far more beautiful.
One must stand near the edge of the rocks at Inspiration Point to grasp
the full majesty of the scene. We are now three miles below the Great
Falls. The Upper Fall, which at close range is a great, beautiful white
sheet of water, rolling with imperial force over a rocky precipice,
seems only a trifling detail in the vast picture--a mere touch of
dazzling white where all else is in color. At the bottom is the blue of
the river, broken here and there into foamy white waves. Pines and
mosses contribute touches of green. The rocky cliffs are yellow and
gold, deepening into orange. In the distance a great rock of crimson
stands like a fortress, with arched doorway, through which is seen a
vista of green fields. But this is an optical illusion, as a strong
glass will reveal. The doorway is only a pointed fir, which the distance
has softened into the shadow of a pointed arch. Mediaeval castles rear
their buttressed fronts on inaccessible slopes. Cathedral spires, as
majestic as those of Cologne, and numerous as the minarets of Milan,
stand out in bold relief. Away down below is an eagle's nest, into which
we can look and see the birds, yet it is perched upon a pinnacle so high
that if one were to stand at the level of the river and look up, it
would tower above him higher than the tallest building in the world.
[Illustration: THE CANON OF THE YELLOWSTONE RIVER]
Not a sign of the handiwork of man appears in any direction. The
gorgeous spectacle, reveling in all the hues of the rainbow, is just as
Nature made it--let the geologist say, if he can, how many thousands of
years ago. And above all this splendid panorama, unequaled save by the
glory of the sunset sky, is that same rich blue which Nature employs to
add the final touch of loveliness to all her greatest works, and yet
reserves enough to beautify the more familiar scenes at home.
X
THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA
X
THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA
I arrived at the canon on a cold night in January, 1903, alone. There
were few guests at the hotel, which was a capacious log cabin, with
long, single-storied frame structures projecting in various directions,
to serve the purposes of sleeping-rooms and kitchens. It had a primitive
look, far more in keeping with the solitude of its surroundings than the
present comfortable hotel. An old guide (I hoped he might be John Hance)
sat by the fire talking with a group of loungers, and I sauntered near
enough to hear the conversation, expecting to listen to some good tale
of the canon. But the talk was commonplace. Presently an Indian came in
accompanied by a young squaw. He was said to be a hundred years old--a
fact no doubt easily proved by the layers of dirt on his face and hands,
if one could count them like the rings on a tree. He proved to be only a
lazy old beggar and quite unromantic. The hotel management did not
provide Indian dances and other forms of amusement then as now and I was
obliged to spend a dull evening. I read the guidebooks and reached the
conclusion that the canon was not worth visiting if one did not go
"down the trail" to the bottom of it. So I inquired at the desk when the
party would start in the morning, and was dismayed to be told that there
would be none unless somebody wanted to go. I was told to put my name on
the "list" and no doubt others would see it and we might "get up" a
party. I therefore boldly signed my name at the top of a white sheet of
paper, feeling much like a decoy, and awaited results. Again and again
during the lonesome evening I sauntered over to the desk, but not one of
the few guests had shown the slightest interest. At ten o'clock my
autograph still headed an invisible list, as lonely as the man for whom
it stood, and I went to bed, vowing to myself that if I could get only
one companion, besides the guide, I would go down the trail.
It was still dark when I heard the strident voice of a Japanese porter
calling through the corridor, "Brek-foos! Brek-foos"! and I rose
quickly. The dawn was just breaking as I stepped out into the chill air
and walked to the edge of the great chasm. Before me rolled a sea of
vapor. It was as though a massive curtain of clouds had been let down
from the sky to protect the canon in the night. The spectacle was not to
be exhibited until the proper hour arrived. The great white ocean
stretched away to the north as far as the eye could reach, filling every
nook and corner of the vast depression. In the east the rosy tints of
the morning brightened the sky. Suddenly a ray of light illumined what
appeared to be a rock, far out in the filmy ocean, and the black mass
blazed with the ruddy hue. The tip of another great butte suddenly
projected itself and caught another ray of light. One by one the rugged
domes of the great rock temples of Brahma and Buddha and Zoroaster and
Isis, as they are called, peeped into view as the mists gradually
disappeared, catching the morning sunbeams at a thousand different
angles, and throwing back a kaleidoscope of purples, blues, reds, and
yellows, until at last the whole superb canon was revealed in a burst of
color, over which the amethyst reigned supreme.
How long I should have stood enraptured before this scene of superlative
grandeur, so marvelously unfolded to the sight, I do not know, had not
the more prosaic call of "Brek-foos!" long since forgotten, again
resounded to bring me back to human levels. I returned to the hotel and
entered the breakfast-room, with an appetite well sharpened by the crisp
wintry air, first taking a furtive glance at the "list," where my name
still presided in solitary dignity. It was still early and I was seated
at the head of a long table, where there were as yet only two or three
other guests. I felt sure that the day would be a busy one, particularly
if I should find that one companion with whom I was determined to
attempt the trail. It would be well to lay in a good supply of fuel, and
accordingly I asked the waiter to get me a good beefsteak and a cup of
coffee. He suggested griddle cakes in addition, as appropriate for a
cold morning, and I assented. Then suddenly remembering that country
hotels have a way of serving microscopic portions in what a
distinguished author has described as "bird bathtubs," I called over my
shoulder to bring me some ham and eggs also. "George" disappeared with a
grin. When he returned, holding aloft a huge and well-loaded tray, that
darky's face was a vision of delight. His eyes sparkled and his thick
lips had expanded into an upturned crescent, wherein two rows of
gleaming ivory stood in military array, every one determined to be seen.
He laid before me a porter-house steak, large enough for my entire
family, an immense elliptical piece of ham sliced from rim to rim off
the thigh of a huge porker, three fried eggs, a small mountain of
buckwheat cakes, and a pot of coffee, remarking, as he made room for the
generous repast, "Ah reckon you-all's powerful hungry dis mawnin',
boss!"
By this time the table was well filled. There is no formality at such
places and we were soon chatting together like old acquaintances. I
resolved to open up the subject of the trail and asked my neighbor at
the right whether he intended to make the trip. He said "No," rather
indifferently, I thought, and I expressed my surprise. I had read the
guidebooks to good purpose and was soon expatiating on the wonders of
the trail, declaring that I could not understand why people should come
from all parts of the world to see the canon and miss the finest sight
of all, the view from below. (Somebody said that in the guidebook.) They
were all listening now. Some one asked if it was not dangerous. "Not in
the least," I replied; "no lives have ever been lost and there has never
been an accident" (the guidebook said that, too)--"and, besides," I
continued, knowingly, "it's lots of fun." Just here a maiden lady of
uncertain age, cadaverous cheeks, and a high, squeaky voice, piped
out,--"I believe I'll go." I remembered my vow about the one companion
and suddenly felt a strange, sickly feeling of irresolution. But it was
only for a moment. A little girl of twelve was tugging at her father's
coat-tails--"Papa, can't I go?" Papa conferred with Mamma, who agreed
that Bessie might go if Papa went too. I was making progress. A
masculine voice from the other end of the table then broke in with a few
more questions, and its owner, a man from Minnesota, whom we afterward
called the "Major," was the next recruit. I had suddenly gained an
unwonted influence. The guests were evidently inspired with a feeling of
respect for a man who would order such a regal breakfast! After the
meal was over, a lady approached and prefacing her request with the
flattering remark that I "looked respectable," said that her daughter, a
young lady of twenty, was anxious to go down the trail; she would
consent if I would agree to see that no harm befell her. I thought I
might as well be a chaperon as a cicerone, since I had had no experience
as either, and promptly assured the mother of my willingness to accept
the charge. It was a vain promise. The young lady was the first to mount
her mule and fell into line behind the guide; before I could secure my
animal others had taken their places and I found myself three mules
astern, with no possibility of passing to the front or of exchanging a
word with my "charge." I fancied a slight gleam of mischievous triumph
in her eyes as she looked back, seeming to say, "I can take care of
myself, quite well, thank you, Mr. Chaperon!" After a slight delay, I
secured my mule and taking the bridle firmly in hand said, "Get up,
Sam." The animal deliberately turned his head and looked back at me with
a sardonic smile in his mulish eye that said clearly--"You imagine that
_you_ are guiding me, don't you? Just wait and see!"
[Illustration: THE TRAIL, GRAND CANON]
There were seven of us, including the guide, as we started down the long
and crooked path. The guide rode a white horse, but the rest of the
party were mounted, like myself, on big, sturdy mules--none of your
little, lazy burros, as most people imagine. At first the trail seemed
to descend at a frightful angle, and the path seemed--oh, so narrow! I
could put out my left hand against a perpendicular wall of rock and look
down on the right into what seemed to be the bottomless pit. I noticed
that the trail was covered with snow and ice. Suppose any of the mules
should slip? Had we not embarked upon a foolhardy undertaking? And if
there should be an accident, all the blame would justly fall upon my
head. How silly of me to be so anxious to go! And how reckless to urge
all these other poor innocents into such a trap!
Fortunately such notions lasted only a few minutes. The mules were
sharp-shod and did not slip. They went down every day, nearly, and knew
their business. They were born in the canon. They would have been
terribly frightened in Broadway, but here they were at home and followed
the familiar path with a firm tread. I threw the bridle over the pommel
of the saddle and gave Sam my implicit trust. He knew a great deal more
about the job than I did. From that moment I had no further thought of
danger.
I came to have a high respect for that mule. Most people respect a mule
only because of the possibility that his hind legs may suddenly fly out
at a tangent and hit something. I respected Sam because I knew his legs
would do nothing of the kind. He needed all of them under him and he
knew it. He never swerved a hair's breadth nearer the outer edge of the
path than was absolutely necessary. The trail descends in a series of
zigzag lines and sharp angles like the teeth of a saw. Sam would march
straight down to one of these angles; then, with the precipice yawning
thousands of feet below, he would slowly squirm around until his head
was pointed down the next segment and then with great deliberation
resume his journey. The guide thought him too deliberate and once came
back to give me a small willow switch. I was riding on a narrow shelf of
rock, less than a yard wide, where I could look down into a chasm
thousands of feet deep. "That mule is too slow," he said; "you must whip
him up." I took the switch and thanked him. But I wouldn't have used it
then for a million dollars!
It was a glorious ride. The trail itself was the only sign of human
handiwork. Everything else in sight was as Nature made it--a wild,
untouched ruggedness near at hand and a softer, gentler aspect in the
distance, where the exposed strata of all the geologic ages caught the
sunshine at millions of angles, each reflecting its own particular hue
and all blending together in a rich harmony of color; where the bright
blue sky and the fleecy clouds came down to join their earthly brethren
in a revelry of rainbow tints, and the sun overhead, despite the snow
about the rim, was smiling his happiest summer benison upon the deep
valley.
We came, presently, to a place called Jacob's Ladder, where the path
ceased to be an inclined plane and became a series of huge steps, each
about as high as an ordinary table. Here we all dismounted, for the
mules could not safely descend with such burdens. It was comical to
watch them. My Sam would stand on each step for several minutes, gazing
about as though enjoying the scenery. Then, as if struck by a sudden
notion, he would drop his fore legs to the next step, and with hind legs
still at the higher elevation, pause in further contemplation. At length
it would occur to this deliberate animal that his hind legs, after all,
really belonged on the same level with the other two, and he would
suddenly drop them down and again become rapt in thought. This
performance was repeated on every step for the entire descent of more
than one hundred feet.
After traveling about three hours, during which we had descended three
thousand feet below the rim, we came to Indian Garden, where an Indian
family once found a fertile spot on which they could practice farming in
their own crude way. Here we came to some tents belonging to a
camping-party, and I found the solution of a problem that had puzzled me
earlier in the day. Standing on the rim and looking across the canon I
had seen what appeared to be a newspaper lying on the grass. I knew it
must be three or four miles from where I stood, and that a newspaper
would be invisible at that distance, yet I could not imagine how any
natural object could appear white and rectangular so far away. Presently
I saw some tiny objects moving slowly like a string of black ants, and
realized that these must be some early trail party. We met them at
Indian Garden. They proved to be prospectors and the "newspaper" was in
reality the group of tents.
We had now left the steep zigzag path, and riding straight forward over
a great plateau, we came to the brink of some granite cliffs, where we
could at last see the Colorado River, thundering through the gorge
thirteen hundred feet below. And what a river it is! From the rim we
could only catch an occasional glimpse, looking like a narrow silver
ribbon, threading in and out among a multitude of strangely fashioned
domes and turrets. Here we saw something of its true character, though
still too far away to feel its real power--a boiling, turbulent, angry,
and useless stream dashing wildly through a barren valley of rock and
sand, its waters capable of generating millions of horse-power, but too
inaccessible to be harnessed, and its surface violently resisting the
slightest attempt at navigation; a veritable anarchist of a river! For
more than a thousand miles it rushes through a deep canon toward the
sea, falling forty-two hundred feet between its source and mouth and for
five hundred miles of its course tumbling in a series of five hundred
and twenty cataracts and rapids--an average of slightly more than one to
every mile.
Think of the courage of brave Major Powell and his men, who descended
this terrible river for the first time, and you have a subject for
contemplation as sublime as the canon itself. In the spring of 1869,
when John W. Powell started on his famous expedition, the Grand Canon
was totally unknown. Hunters and prospectors had seen enough to bring
back wonderful stories. Parties had ventured into the gorge in boats and
had never been heard of again. The Indians warned him that the canon was
sacred to the gods, who would consider any attempt to enter it an act of
disobedience to their wishes and contempt for their authority, and
vengeance would surely follow. The incessant roar of the waters told of
many cataracts and it was currently reported that the river was lost
underground for several hundred miles. Undaunted by these fearful tales,
Major Powell, who had seen service in the Civil War, leaving an arm on
the battlefield of Shiloh, determined, nevertheless, to descend the
river. He had long been a student of botany, zooelogy, and mineralogy
and had devoted two years to a study of the geology of the region.
With nine other men as his companions, he started from Green River City,
Wyoming, on the 24th of May, with one light boat of pine and three heavy
ones built of oak. Nothing could be more modest than his report to the
Government, yet it is an account of thrilling adventures and
hair-breadth escapes, day by day, almost too marvelous for belief. Yet
there is not the slightest doubt of its authenticity in every detail. At
times the swift current carried them along with the speed of an express
train, the waves breaking and rolling over the boats, which, but for the
water-tight compartments, must have been swamped at the outset.
When a threatening roar gave warning of another cataract they would pull
for the shore and prepare to make a portage. The boats were unloaded and
the stores of provisions, instruments, etc., carried down to some
convenient point below the falls. Then the boats were let down, one by
one. The bow line would be taken below and made fast. Then with five or
six men holding back on the stern line with all their strength, the boat
would be allowed to go down as far as they could hold it, when the line
would be cast off, the boat would leap over the falls, and be caught by
the lower rope. Again and again, day after day throughout the entire
summer, this hard work was continued. In the early evenings and
mornings Major Powell, with a companion or two, would climb to the top
of the high cliffs, towering to a height of perhaps two thousand or
three thousand feet above the river, to make his observations,
frequently getting into dangerous positions where a man with two arms
would have difficulty in clinging to the rocks, and where any one but a
man of iron nerve would have met instant death.
Day by day they faced what seemed certain destruction, dashing through
rapids, spinning about in whirlpools, capsizing in the breakers, and
clinging to the upturned boats until rescued or thrown up on some rocky
islet, breaking their oars, losing or spoiling their rations until they
were nearly gone, and toiling incessantly every waking hour. One of the
boats was completely wrecked before they had crossed the Arizona line,
and one man, who barely escaped death in this accident, left the party
on July 5, declaring that he had seen danger enough. The remaining
eight, whether from loyalty to their chief or because it seemed
impossible to climb to the top of the chasm, continued to brave the
perils of the river until August 27, when they had reached a point well
below the mouth of the Bright Angel River. Here the danger seemed more
appalling than at any previous time. Lateral streams had washed great
boulders into the river, forming a dam over which the water fell
eighteen or twenty feet; then appeared a rapid for two or three hundred
yards on one side, the walls of the canon projecting sharply into the
river on the other; then a second fall so great that its height could
not be determined, and beyond this more rapids, filled with huge rocks
for one or two hundred yards, and at the bottom a great rock jutting
halfway across the river, having a sloping side up which the tumbling
waters dashed in huge breakers. After spending the afternoon clambering
among the rocks to survey the river and coolly calculating his chances,
the dauntless Powell announced his intention to proceed. But there were
three men whose courage was not equal to this latest demand, and they
firmly declined the risk.
On the morning of the 28th, after a breakfast that seemed like a
funeral, the three deserters--one can scarcely find the heart to blame
them--climbed a crag to see their former comrades depart. One boat is
left behind. The other two push out into the stream and in less than a
minute have safely run the dangerous rapids, which seemed bad enough
from above, but were in reality less difficult than many others
previously experienced. A succession of rapids and falls are safely run,
but after dinner they find themselves in another bad place. The river is
tumbling down over the rocks in whirlpools and great waves and the
angry waters are lashed into white foam. There is no possibility of a
portage and both boats must go over the falls. Away they go, dashing and
plunging, striking the rocks and rolling over and over until they reach
the calmer waters below, when as if by miracle it is found that every
man in the party is uninjured and both the boats are safe. By noon of
the next day they have emerged from the Grand Canon into a valley where
low mountains can be seen in the distance. The river flows in silent
majesty, the sky is bright overhead, the birds pour forth the music of a
joyous welcome, the toil and pain are over, the gloomy shadows have
disappeared, and their joy is exquisite as they realize that the first
passage of the long and terrible river has been safely accomplished and
all are alive and well.
But what of the three who left them? If only they could have known that
safety and joy were little more than a day ahead! They successfully
climbed the steep canon walls, only to encounter a band of Indians who
were looking for cattle thieves or other plunderers. They could give no
other account of their presence except to say they had come down the
river. This, to the Indian mind, was so obviously an impossibility that
the truth seemed an audacious lie and the three unfortunate men were
murdered.