HOSPITABLE RANCHMEN
The appearance of Desolation Canyon had changed entirely in the
lower end. Instead of a straight canyon without a break, we were
surrounded by mountain peaks nearly 2500 feet high, with many side
canyons between them and with little level parks at the end of the
canyons beside the river. The tops were pine-covered; cedars clung to
the rocky slopes. Some of these peaks were not unlike the formations
of the Grand Canyon, as seen from the inner plateau, and the red
colouring was once more found in the rocks.
These peaks were gradually dropping down in height; and at one open
section, with alfalfa and hay fields on gently sloping hillsides, we
found a small ranch, the buildings being set back from the river.
We concluded to call and found three men, the rancher and two
young cowboys, at work in a blacksmith shop. Emery had forgotten
to remove his life-preserver, and the men looked at him with some
astonishment, as he was still soaking wet from the splashing waves of
the last rapid. When I joined him he was explaining that no one had
been drowned, and that we were merely making an excursion down the
river. Mr. McPherson, the rancher, we learned, owned all the cattle
seen up the river. The little cabin at our last camp was a sort of
headquarters for his cowboys. The cattle were just being driven from
the mountains before the snows came, and were to be wintered here in
the canyons. Some of these cattle were much above the usual grade of
range cattle, being thoroughbreds, although most of them ran loose
on the range. This ranch had recently lost a valuable bull which
had been killed by a bear up in the mountains--not unlike similar
conflicts in more civilized sections of the country. McPherson camped
on this bear’s trail for several days and nights before he finally
hung his pelt on a tree. He was a large cinnamon-coloured grizzly.
Four other bears had been killed this same year, in these mountains.
McPherson’s home had burned down a short time before our visit, and
his family had removed to Green River, Utah. A number of tents were
erected, neatly boarded up, and we were informed that one of these
was reserved for company, so we need not think of going any farther
that day. These men, while absolutely fearless in the saddle, over
these rough mountain trails, had “no use for the river” they told
us; in fact, we found this was the usual attitude of the cattle men
wherever we met them. McPherson’s respect for the river was not
without reason, as his father, with two others, had been drowned
while making a crossing in a light boat near this point, some
years before. Some accident occurred, possibly the breaking of a
rowlock, and they were carried into a rapid. McPherson’s men found
it necessary to cross their cattle back and forth, but always took
the wise precaution to have on some life-preservers. These cork
preservers hung in the blacksmith shop, where they could easily be
reached at a moment’s notice.
Desolation Canyon, with a slight breaking down of the walls for a
short distance only, gave place to Gray Canyon below the McPherson
Ranch. A good-sized mountain stream, part of which irrigated the
ranch above, found its way through this division. We had been told
that more rapids lay ahead of us in Gray Canyon, but they were not
so numerous in our next day’s travel. What we did find were usually
large, but we ran them all without difficulty. About noon we met
five men in a boat, rowing up the stream in a long, still stretch.
They told us they were working on a dam, a mile or two below. They
followed us down to see us make the passage through the rapid
which lay above their camp. The rapid was long and rocky, having a
seventeen-foot fall in a half mile. We picked our channel by standing
up in the boat before entering the rapid and were soon at the bottom
with no worse mishap than bumping a rock or two rather lightly. We
had bailed out and were tying our boats, when the men came panting
down the hill up which they had climbed to see us make this plunge. A
number of men were at work here, but this being Sunday, most of them
had gone to Green River, Utah, twenty-one miles distant.
Among the little crowd who came down to see us resume our rowing
was a lady and a little girl who lived in a rock building, near the
other buildings erected for the working-men. Emery showed the child
a picture of his four-year-old daughter, Edith, with her mother--a
picture he always carried in a note-book. Then he had her get in the
boat with him, and we made a photograph of them. They were very good
friends before we left.
In a few hours we emerged from the low-walled canyon into a level
country. A large butte, perhaps 700 feet high, stood out by itself, a
mile from the main cliffs. This was Gunnison Butte, an old landmark
near the Gunnison trail. We were anxious to reach Blake or Green
River, Utah, not many miles below, that evening; but we failed to
make it. There were several rapids, some of them quite large, and
we had run them all when we came to a low dam that obstructed our
passage, While looking it over, seeing how best to make a portage, a
young man whom we had just seen remarked:
“Well, boys, you had better tie up and I will help you in the
morning.”
It was 5.30 then, and we were still six miles from Green River, so
we took his advice and camped. On seeing our sleeping bags, tightly
strapped and making rather a small roll, he remarked:
“Well, you fellows are not Mormons; I can tell by the size of your
beds!”
Our new friend gave the name of Wolverton. There was another man
named Wilson who owned a ranch just below the dam. Both of these men
were much interested in our experiences. Wolverton had considerable
knowledge of the river and of boats; very little persuasion would
have been necessary to have had him for a companion on the balance
of our journey. But we had made up our minds to make it alone, now,
as it looked feasible. Both Wilson and Wolverton knew the country
below Green River, Utah, having made surveys through much of the
surrounding territory. Wolverton said we must surely see his father,
who lived down the river and who was an enthusiast on motor boats. A
few minutes’ work the next morning sufficed to get our boats over the
dam. The dam was constructed of loose rock and piles, chinked with
brush and covered with sloping planks,--just a small dam to raise
the water for irrigation purposes. Much of the water ran through the
canal; in places the planks were dry, in others some water ran over.
The boats, being unloaded, were pulled up on these planks, then slid
into the water below. Wilson had a large water wheel for irrigation
purposes, the first of several such wheels which we were to see this
day. These wheels, twenty feet or more in height,--with slender
metal buckets each holding gallons of water, fastened at intervals
on either side,--were placed in a swift current, anchored on the
shore to stout piles, or erected over mill-races cut in the banks.
There they revolved, the buckets filling and emptying automatically,
the water running off in troughs above the level of the river back
to the fertile soil. Some of these wheels had ingenious floating
arrangements whereby they accommodated themselves to the different
stages of a rising or falling river. We took a few pictures of
Wilson’s place before leaving. He informed us that he had telephoned
to certain people in Green River who would help us in various ways.
Two hours’ rowing, past many pretty little ranches, brought us to the
railroad bridge, a grateful sight to us. A pumping plant stood beside
the bridge under charge of Captain Yokey, one of Wilson’s friends.
Yokey owned a large motor boat, which was tied up to the shore. Our
boats were left in his charge while we went up to the town, a mile
distant. Another of Wilson’s friends met us, and secured a dark room
for us so that we could do a little developing and we prepared for
work on the following day.
That night a newspaper reporter hunted us out, anxious for a story.
We gave him what we had, making light of our previous difficulties,
which were exciting enough at times; but owing to the comparatively
small size of the stream, we seldom thought our lives were in
any great danger. The papers made the most of these things, and
the stories that came out had little semblance to our original
statements. We have since learned that no matter how much one
minimizes such things, they are seldom published as reported.
We put in a busy day unpacking new films and plates developing all
films from the smaller cameras and sending these home. A new stock of
provisions had to be purchased, enough for one month at least, for
there was no chance of securing supplies until we reached our canyon
home, about 425 miles below.
We had a valuable addition to our cargo in two metal boxes that had
been shipped here, as it was not possible to get them before leaving
Wyoming. These cases or trunks were sent from England, and were
water-tight, if not waterproof, there being a slight difference. Well
constructed, with rubber gaskets and heavy clamps, every possible
precaution had been taken, it seemed, to exclude the water and still
render them easy of access. They were about thirty inches long,
fifteen wide, and twelve high, just the thing for our photographic
material. Up to this time everything had to be kept under the decks
when in bad water. These boxes were placed in the open section in
front of us, and were thoroughly fastened to the ribs to prevent
loss, ready to be opened or closed in a moment, quite a convenience
when pictures had to be taken hurriedly.
The following day we went over the boats, caulking few leaks. The
bottoms of the boats were considerably the worse for wear, owing to
our difficulties in the first canyons. We got some thin oak strips
and nailed them on the bottom to help protect them, when portaging.
Sliding the boats on the scouring sand and rough-surfaced rock was
hard on the half-inch boards on the bottom of the boats. This work
was all completed that day, and everything was ready for the next
plunge.
In passing the station, we noticed the elevation above sea-level was
placed at 4085 feet, and remembered that Green River, Wyoming, was
6080 feet, showing that our descent in the past 425 miles had been
close to 2000 feet. We had not found it necessary to line or portage
any rapids since leaving Lodore Canyon; we were hopeful that our good
luck would continue.
Nothing was to be feared from what remained of the Green River, 120
miles or more, for motor boats made the journey to its junction
with the Grand, and we were told even ascended the Grand for some
distance. Below this junction was the Colorado River, a different
stream from the one we were still to navigate.
Before leaving, we ate a final hearty breakfast at the boarding-house
where we had been taking our meals. A number of young men, clerks
in some of the business houses here, were among the boarders. The
landlady a whole-souled German woman and an excellent cook, was
greatly worried over their small appetites, thinking it was a
reflection on her table. She remarked that she hoped we had good
appetites, and I am sure she had no complaint to make so far as we
were concerned. We had never stinted ourselves when on the river, but
the change and the rest seemed to give us an abnormal appetite that
could not be satisfied, and we would simply quit eating because we
were ashamed to eat more. Less than half an hour after one of these
big meals, I was surprised to see my brother in a restaurant with a
sheepish grin on his face, and with a good-sized lunch before him.