SUSPICIOUS HOSTS
We awoke bright and early the next morning, much refreshed by our day
of rest and variety. With an early start we were soon pulling down
the river, and noon found us several miles below the camp, having run
eleven rapids with no particular difficulty. A reference in my notes
reads: “Last one has a thousand rocks, and we could not miss them
all. My rowing is improving, and we both got through fairly well.” In
the afternoon they continued to come--an endless succession of small
rapids, with here and there a larger one. The canyon was similar
to that at our camp above, dark red walls with occasional pines on
the ledges,--a most charming combination of colour. At 2.30 P.M.
we reached Ashley Falls, a rapid we had been expecting to see for
some time. It was a place of singular beauty. A dozen immense rocks
had fallen from the cliff on the left, almost completely blocking
the channel--or so it seemed from one point of view. But there was
a crooked channel, not more than twelve wide in places, through
which the water shot like a stream from a nozzle.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“IMMENSE ROCKS HAD FALLEN FROM THE CLIFF.”]
We wanted a motion picture of our dash through the chute. But the
location for the camera was hard to secure, for a sheer bank of rock
or low wall prevented us from climbing out on the right side. We
overcame this by landing on a little bank at the base of the wall and
by dropping a boat down with a line to the head of the rapid where a
break occurred in the wall. Jimmy was left with the camera, the boat
was pulled back, and we prepared to run the rapid.
We first had to pass between two square rocks rising eight feet above
the water so close together that we could not use the oars; then,
when past these, pull ten feet to the right in order to clear the
large rock at the end of the main dam, or barrier, not more than
twenty feet below. To pull down bow first and try to make the turn,
would mean to smash broadside against this rock. It could only be
done by dropping stern first, and pulling to the right under the
protection of the first rocks; though it was doubtful if even this
could be accomplished, the current was so swift. The _Defiance_ was
ready first, the _Edith_ was to follow as closely as safety allowed.
Almost before I knew it I was in the narrow channel, so close to the
right rock that I had to ship that oar, and pull altogether on the
left one. As soon as I was through I made a few quick strokes, but
the current was too strong for me; and a corner of the stern struck
a bang when I was almost clear. She paused as a wave rolled over the
decks, then rose quickly; a side current caught the boat, whirling it
around, and the bow struck. I was still pulling with all my might,
but everything happened so quickly,--with the boat whirling first
this way, then that,--that my efforts were almost useless. But after
that second strike I did get in a few strokes, and pulled into the
quiet pool below the line of boulders.
Emery held his boat in better position than I had done, and it looked
for a while as if he would make it. But the _Edith_ struck on the
stern, much as mine had done. Then he pulled clear and joined me in
the shelter of the large rock, as cool and smiling as if he had been
rowing on a mill-pond. We were delighted to find that our boats had
suffered no damage from the blows they had received. Striking on the
ends as they did, the shock was distributed throughout the whole boat.
This completed our run for that day, and we went into camp just below
the “Falls.” Emery painted the name _Edith_ on the bow of his boat,
at this camp. The name was given in honour of his four-year-old
daughter, waiting for us at the Grand Canyon. I remarked that as no
one loved me, I would name my boat the _Defiance_. But I hesitated
about putting this name on the bow. I would look rather foolish, I
thought, if the _Defiance_ should be wrecked in the first bad rapid.
So the christening of my boat was left until such time as should
have earned the title, although she was constantly referred to as the
_Defiance_.
We remained until noon of the following day at Ashley Falls,
exploring, repairing, and photographing this picturesque spot. The
canyon walls here dropped down to beautiful, rolling foot-hills eight
or nine hundred feet high tree covered as before but more open. The
diversity of rocks and hills was alluring. There was work to be
done and no pleasanter spot could be found in which to do it. Among
other things that had to be looked after were some adjustments to
the motion-picture camera--usually referred to by us as the M. P.
C.--this delicate work always falling to Emery, for he alone could do
it.
There was much to interest us here. Major Powell reported finding
the name “Ashley” painted under an overhanging rock on the left side
of the river. Underneath was a date, rather indistinct, but found to
have been 1825, by Dellenbaugh, after carefully tracing the career
of Colonel Ashley who was responsible for the record. Accompanied
by a number of trappers, he made the passage through this canyon at
that early day. We found a trace of the record. There were three
letters--A-s-h--the first two quite distinct, and underneath were
black spots. It must have been pretty good paint to leave a trace
after eighty-six years!
Resuming our journey we passed into deep canyon again,--the deepest
we had found up to this time,--with steeply sloping, verdure-covered
walls about 2700 feet high. The rapids still continued. At one rapid
the remark was made that “Two feet of water would cover two hundred
rocks so that our boats would pass over them.” But we did not have
the two feet needed.
We had previously been informed that some of these mountains were
the hiding-places of men who were “wanted” in the three states which
bordered near here. Some escaping prisoners had also been traced to
the mountains in this direction; then all tracks had ceased. The few
peaceable ranchers who lived in these mountains were much alarmed
over these reports. We found one such rancher on the plateau above
the canyon, whom we will call Johnson for convenience,--living in one
of the upper canyons. He sold us some provisions. In return he asked
us to help him swim some of his horses across the river. He said the
high water had taken out his own boat. The horses were rounded up
in a mountain-hidden valley and driven into the water ahead of the
boat. After securing the horses, Johnson’s welcome seemed to turn
to suspicion and he questioned our reasons for being there, wanting
to know what we could find in that wild country to interest us.
Johnson’s sons, of whom there were several, seemed to put in most of
their time at hunting and trapping, never leaving the house without
a gun. The cabin home looked like an arsenal, revolvers and guns
hanging on all the walls--even his daughters being familiar with
their use. Although we had been very well treated after all, Mrs.
Johnson especially having been very kind to us, we felt just a little
relieved when the Johnson ranch was left behind. We use, in fact,
a fictitious name, not caring to visit on them the suspicions we
ourselves felt in return.
[Illustration: ASHLEY FALLS, LOOKING DOWN-STREAM.]
Another morning passed in repairing the M. P. camera, and another
afternoon’s work was necessary to get us out of the walls and the
rapids of Red Canyon. But on the evening of the 20th, we did get out,
and pulled into an open country known as Brown’s Park, one week after
entering Flaming Gorge. It had not been very fast travelling; but we
were through, and with no mishap more serious than a split board on
the side of my boat. Under favourable conditions, and in experienced
hands, this distance might have been covered in three days. But
meanwhile, we were gaining a lot of experience.
About the lower end of Red Canyon the river turned directly east,
paralleling the northern boundary of Utah, and continued to flow in
this general direction until it crossed into Colorado.
On emerging from Red Canyon we spied a ranch house or log cabin close
to the river. The doors were open and there were many tracks in
the sand, so we thought some one must be about. On approaching the
house, however, we found the place was deserted, but with furniture,
books, and pictures piled on the floor in the utmost confusion, as
if the occupants had left in a great hurry. This surmise afterward
proved to be correct; for we learned that the rancher had been
murdered for his money, his body having been found in a boat farther
down the river. Suspicion pointed to an old employee who had been
seen lurking near the place. He was traced to the railroad, over a
hundred miles to the north; but made his escape and was never caught.
We found Brown’s Park, once known as Brown’s Hole, to be a beautiful
valley several miles in width, and thirty-five or forty miles in
length. The upper end of the valley was rugged in places, with rocky
hills two or three hundred feet high. To the south, a few miles away,
were the mountains, a continuation of those we had come through. We
saw many cattle scattered over some of these rocky hills, grazing
on the bunch-grass. At one place our course led us through a little
canyon about two miles long, and scarcely more than two hundred feet
deep. This was Swallow Canyon--a name suggested by the many birds of
that species which had covered the canyon’s walls with their little
clay nests. The openings of some of these nests were so small that it
scarcely seemed possible for a bird to enter.
The water was deep and quiet in this short canyon, and a hard wind
blowing up the stream made it difficult for us to gain any headway.
In this case, too, the forms of the boat were against us. With the
keel removed and with their high sides catching the wind, they were
carried back and forth like small balloons. Well, we could put
up with it for a while, for those very features would prove most
valuable in the rough-water canyons which were to follow!
Emerging from the canyon at last, we saw a ferry loaded with sheep
crossing the stream. On the left shore was a large corral, also
filled with sheep which a half dozen men were driving back and forth
into different compartments. Later these men told us there were 2400
sheep in the flock. We took their word for it, making no attempt to
count them. The foreman of the ranch agreed to sell us some sugar and
honey,--these two articles being a welcome addition to our list of
supplies, which were beginning to show the effects of our voracious
appetites.
We found many other log cabins and ranches as we proceeded. Some of
them were deserted; at others men were busily engaged in cutting hay
or the wild grass that grew in the bottoms. The fragrance of new-mown
hay was in the air. Young boys and women were among these busy
workers, some of the women being seated on large harvesters, handling
the horses with as much dexterity as any of the men.
The entire trip through this pretty valley was full of interest.
We were hailed from the shore by some of the hay ranchers, it being
a novel sight to them to see a river expedition. At one or two of
these places we asked the reason for the deserted ranches above, and
were given evasive answers. Finally we were told that cattle rustlers
from the mountains made it so hard for the ranchers in the valleys
that there was nothing for them to do but get out. They told us,
also, that we were fortunate to get away from Johnson’s ranch with
our valuables! Our former host, we were told, had committed many
depredations and had served one term for cattle stealing. Officers,
disguised as prospectors, had taken employment with him and helped
him kill and skin some cattle; the skins, with their telltale brands,
having been partially burned and buried. On this evidence he was
afterwards convicted.
Our cool welcome by the Johnsons, their suspicions of us, the
sinister arsenal of guns and pistols, all was explained! Quite likely
some of these weapons had been trained against us by the trappers on
the chance that we were either officers of the law, or competitors in
the horse-stealing industry. For that matter we were actually guilty
of the latter count, for come to think of it, we ourselves had helped
them steal eight horses and a colt!
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
THE ROCKS WERE DARK RED: OCCASIONAL PINES GREW ON THE LEDGES, MAKING
A CHARMING COMBINATION OF COLOUR.]
The entire trip through this pretty valley was full of interest. It
was all so different from anything seen above. There were great
bottoms that gave evidence of having recently been overflooded,
though now covered with cottonwood trees, gorgeous in their autumn
foliage. We had often wondered where all the driftwood that floated
down the Colorado came from; but after seeing those unnumbered acres
of cottonwoods we ceased to wonder.
There were many beaver slides on the banks; and in places, numberless
trees had been felled by these industrious animals. On one or two
occasions we narrowly escaped splitting the sides of our boats on
snags of trees which the beavers had buried in the bottom of the
stream. We saw no beaver dams on the river; they were not necessary,
for deep, quiet pools existed everywhere in Brown’s Park. We saw two
beavers in this section. One of these rose, porpoise-like, to the top
of the water, stared at us a moment, then brought his tail down with
a resounding smack on the top of the water, and disappeared, to enter
his home by the subterranean route, no doubt.
The river was gradually losing its clear colour, for the sand-bars
were beginning to “work out,” or break, making the water quite roily.
In some sections of Brown’s Park we grounded on these sand-bars,
making it necessary for us to get out into the water, pushing and
pulling on the boats until deeper water was reached. Sometimes
the deep water came when least expected, the sand-bars having
a disconcerting way of dropping off abruptly on the downstream
side. Jimmy stepped off the edge of one of these hidden ledges
while working with a boat and was for some time in no condition to
appreciate our ill-concealed mirth.
Often we would be passing along on perfectly smooth water, when
suddenly a turmoil would rise all about us, as though a geyser had
broken out below the surface. If we happened to be directly over it,
the boat would be rocked back and forth for a while; then all would
be peaceful again. This was most often caused by the ledges of sand,
anywhere from three to ten feet high, breaking down or falling forward
as their bases were undermined. In a single night a bar of this kind
will work upstream for a distance of several feet; then the sand will
be carried down with the current to lodge again in some quiet pool,
and again be carried on as before. This action gives rise to long
lines of regular waves or swells extending for some distance down
the stream. These are usually referred to as sand-waves. These waves
increase in size in high water; and the monotonous thump, thump of
the boat’s bottom upon them is anything but pleasant, especially if
one is trying to make fast time.
So, with something new at every turn, we pulled lazily through
Brown’s Park, shooting at ducks and geese when we came near them,
snapping our cameras when a picture presented itself, and observing
the animal life along the stream.
We stopped at one hay-ranch close to the Utah-Colorado line and
chatted awhile with the workers. A pleasant-faced woman named Mrs.
Chew asked us to deliver a message at a ranch a mile or two below.
Here also was the post-office of Lodore, Colorado, located a short
distance above the canyon of the same name. Mrs. Chew informed us
that they had another ranch at the lower end of Lodore Canyon and
asked us to look them up when we got through, remarking:
“You may have trouble, you know. Two of my sons once tried it. They
lost their boat, had to climb out, and nearly starved before they
reached home.”
The post-office at the ranch, found as described, without another
home in sight, was a welcome sight to us for several reasons. One
reason was that it afforded shelter from a heavy downpour of rain
that greeted us as we neared it, and a better reason still was, that
it gave us a chance to write and mail some letters to those who would
be most anxious to hear from us.
Among the messages we mailed was a picture post-card of Coney Island
at night. In some way this card had slipped between the leaves of
a book that I had brought from the East. I sent it out, addressed
to a friend who would understand the joke; writing underneath the
picture, “We have an abundance of such scenery here.” The young woman
who had charge of the office looked at the card in amazement. It was
evidently something new to her. She told us she had never been to
the railroad, and that her brother took the mail out on horseback to
Steamboat, Colorado, 140 miles distant.
The rain having ceased, we returned to our boats, pausing to admire a
rainbow that arched above the canyon in the mountains, toward which
we were headed. We remarked, jokingly, to Jimmy that this was a good
sign. He replied without smiling that he “hoped so.” Jimmy’s songs
had long since ceased, and we suspected him of homesickness. With the
exception of a short visit to some friends on a large ranch, Jimmy
had never been away from his home in San Francisco. This present
experience was quite a contrast, to be sure! We did what we could to
keep him cheered up, but with little success. Jimmy had intimated
that he would prefer to leave at the first opportunity to reach a
railroad, and we willingly agreed to help him in every possible way.
Emery and I also agreed between ourselves that we would not take any
unnecessary risks with him; but would leave him out of the boats at
all rapids, if there was any passage around them.
The river had taken a sharp turn to the south soon after passing the
post-office, heading directly towards the mountains. Camp was pitched
just above the mouth of Lodore. This twenty-mile canyon bears a very
unsavory reputation, having a descent of 425 feet in that short
distance, the greater part of the fall occurring in a space of
twelve miles. This would mean wild water somewhere!
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“WE STOPPED AT ONE HAY RANCH CLOSE TO THE UTAH-COLORADO LINE.”]
We were camped on a spot recently occupied by some engineers of
the United States Conservation Department, who had been trying to
determine if it was feasible to dam the river at this place. The
plan was to flood the hole of Brown’s Park and divert the water
through the mountains by a tunnel to land suitable for cultivation
and in addition, allow the muddy water to settle and so prevent the
vast amount of silt from being washed on down, eventually to the
mouth of the Colorado. The location seemed admirably suited for this
stupendous project. But holes drilled beside the river failed to find
bottom, as nothing but quicksand existed even at a depth of nearly
three hundred feet; and without a strong foundation, such a dam would
be utterly useless.