A COMPANION VOYAGER
Thursday morning, October the 26th, found Emery feeling very poorly,
but insisting on going ahead with our day’s work, so Camp No. 34
was soon behind us. We were embarked on a new stream, flowing
west-southwest, with a body of water ten times the size of that which
we had found in the upper canyons of the Green. Our sixteen-foot
boats looked quite small when compared with the united currents of
the Green and the Grand rivers. The Colorado River must have been
about 350 feet wide here just below the junction, with a three-mile
current, and possibly twenty-five feet deep, although this is only a
guess. The Grand River appeared to be the higher of the two streams,
and had a decidedly red colour, as though a recent storm was being
carried down its gorges; while the colour of the Green was more of a
coffee colour--coffee with a little cream in it.
A fourth of a mile below the junction the two currents began to mix,
with a great ado about it, with small whirlpools and swift eddies,
and sudden outbursts from beneath, as though a strangled current was
struggling to escape from the weight which overpowered it. The boats
were twisted this way and that, and hard rowing was necessary to
carry us down to the steadied current, and to the first rapid, which
we could hear when yet far above it.
Soon we were running rapids again, and getting a lot of sport out of
it. There were some rocks, but there was water enough so that these
could be avoided. If one channel did not suit us, we took another,
and although we were drenched in every rapid, and the cockpit was
half filled each time, it was not cold enough to cause us any great
discomfort, and we bailed out at the end of each rapid, then hurried
on to tackle the next. Each of these rapids was from a fourth to a
third of a mile in length. The average was at least one big rapid
to the mile. When No. 5 was reached we paused a little longer, and
looked it over more carefully than we had the others. It had a short,
quick descent, then a long line of white-topped waves, with a big
whirlpool on the right. There were numerous rocks which would take
careful work to avoid. The waves were big,--big enough for a motion
picture,--so Emery remained on shore with both the motion-picture
camera and the 8 × 10 plate camera in position, ready to take the
picture, while I ran my boat.
At the head of this rapid we saw footprints in the sand, but not made
with the same shoe as that which we had noticed above the junction.
We had also seen signs of a camp, and some fishes’ heads above this
point, and what we took to be a dog’s track along the shore.
At the head of the next rapid we saw them again, but on opposite
side of the river, and could see where boat had been pulled up on
the sand. This next rapid was almost as bad as the one above it, but
with a longer descent, instead of one abrupt drop. The following
rapid was so close that we continued along the shore to look it over
at the same time, saving a stop between the two rapids. The shores
were strewn with a litter of gigantic boulders--fallen sections of
the overhanging cliffs. We found more of this in Cataract Canyon
than in any of the canyons above. This was partly responsible for
the violence of the rapids, although the descent of the river would
make rough water even if there were no boulders. Working back along
the shore, we were suddenly electrified into quick action by seeing
the _Edith_ come floating down the river, close to the shore and
almost on the rapid. Emery was a short distance ahead and ran for the
_Defiance_; I caught up a long pole and got on a projecting rock,
hoping I might steer her in. She passed me, and was soon in the midst
of the rapid before Emery had launched the boat. Three gigantic
boulders extended above the water about fifty feet from shore, with
a very crooked channel between. Down toward these boulders came the
_Edith_, plunging like a thing possessed. How it was done I could
never tell, but she passed through the crooked channel without once
touching, and continued over the rapid. Meanwhile Emery had run the
other side and had gained on the _Edith_, but only caught her when
close to the next rapid; so he turned her loose and came to the shore
for me.
Emery had not been feeling his best and I advised him to remain on
shore while I took the boat. As we made the change we again observed
the boat, bounding through the next rapid, whirling on the tops of
the waves as though in the hands of a superhuman juggler. I managed
to overtake her in a whirlpool below the rapid, and came to shore
for her captain. He was nearly exhausted with his efforts; still he
insisted on continuing. A few miles below we saw some ducks, and shot
at them with a revolver. But the ducks flew disdainfully away, and
landed in the pool below.
By 4.30 P.M. we were twelve miles below the junction, a very good
day’s run considering the kind of water we were travelling on, and
the amount of time we spent on the shore. We had just run our twelfth
rapid, and were turning the boats around, when we saw a man back from
the shore working over a pile of boxes which he had covered with a
piece of canvas. A boat was tied to the water’s edge. We called to
him, and he answered, but did not seem nearly as much interested
in seeing companion travellers as we were, and proceeded with his
work. We landed, and, to save time, introduced ourselves, as there
seemed to be a certain aloofness in his manner. He gave the name of
Smith--with some hesitation, we thought.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
LOOKING WEST INTO CATARACT CANYON.]
[Illustration: CHARLES SMITH AND HIS BOAT.]
Smith was about medium size, but looked tough and wiry; he had a
sandy complexion, with light hair and mustache. He had lost one eye,
the other was that light gray colour that is usually associated with
indomitable nerve. He had a shrewd, rather humorous expression, and
gave one the impression of being very capable. Dressed in a neat
whipcord suit, wearing light shoes and a carefully tied tie, recently
shaved--a luxury we had denied ourselves, all this time--he was
certainly an interesting character to meet in this out-of-the-way
place. We should judge he was a little over forty years old; but
whether prospector, trapper, or explorer it was hard to say. Some
coyote skins, drying on a rock, would give one the impression that he
was the second, with a touch of the latter thrown in. These coyotes
were responsible for the tracks we had seen, and had mistaken for
dog tracks, but of all the canyons we had seen he was in the last
place where we would expect to find a trapper. The coyotes evidently
reached the river gorge through side canyons on the left, where we
had seen signs of ancient trails. Apart from that there was no sign
of animal life. With the last of the wooded canyons, the signs of
beaver had disappeared. There were a few otter tracks, but they are
wily fellows, and are seldom trapped. While there are laws against
the trapping of beaver, they seldom prevent the trappers from taking
them when they get the chance; they are only a little more wary of
strangers; the thought occurred to us that this trapper may have
secured some beaver in the open sections above, and mistrusted us for
this reason.
It was too late to go any farther that evening, so we camped a
hundred yards below him, close to where our boats were pulled out.
At this place there was a long, wide flat in the canyon, with plenty
of driftwood, so we saw no reason why we should quarrel with our
neighbour. Smith accepted our invitation to supper, stating that he
had just eaten before we arrived, but enjoyed some pineapple which we
had kept for some special occasion, and which was served for dessert.
Over the table we became better acquainted, and, after learning what
we were doing, he recounted his experiences. He told us he had left
Green River, Utah, a month before, and had been trapping as he came
along. He knew there was a canyon, and some rapids below, but had no
idea they were so bad, and thought they were about ended. No one had
warned him, for he had told no one what he intended doing. He had
bought an old water-logged boat that had been built by Galloway, and
seeing the uselessness of trying to run the rapids with it, worked
it down along the shores by holding it with a light chain. Once he
had been pulled into the river, twice the boat had been upset, and he
was just about dried out from the last spill when we arrived. He had
heard us shooting at the ducks, so rather expected company--this in
brief was his amazing story.
We were surprised when we examined the boat closely. It had been
well made, but was so old and rotten that it seemed ready to fall
to pieces. In places, the nail heads had pulled through the boards.
It was entirely open on top--a great risk in such water. His boxes
were tied in to prevent loss. These boxes were now piled on the
shore, with a large canvas thrown over them. This canvas, fastened
at the top and sloping to the ground, served him for a tent; his bed
was underneath. A pair of high-topped boots, placed bottom up over
two sticks, stuck in the sand beside the camp-fire, explained the
different tracks we had seen above.
Smith evidently was not much alarmed over his situation. About the
only thing that seemed to bother him was the fact that his smoking
tobacco had been wet several times. That evening we got out our
guide-book--Dellenbaugh’s “A Canyon Voyage”--and tried to give
him an idea of what was ahead. The walls ahead grew higher, and
closer together; sometimes there was a shore on one side, sometimes
on the other, at one or two places there was no shore on either
side, and the rapids continued to get worse,--so we gathered from
Dellenbaugh’s experience. Above this point there were several places
where one could climb out,--we had even seen signs of ancient trails
in two side canyons,--below here few such places existed.
Smith listened to all this attentively, then smiled and said “I guess
there will be some way through.” After a short visit he returned to
his camp. We noticed that he slept on his gun,--to keep it dry, no
doubt, for it looked like rain.
Morning found us very sorry that we had not erected our tent, for it
rained nearly all night, but when once in our beds it was a question
which was preferable; to get out in the rain and put up our tent,
or remain in our comfortable beds. We remained where we were. As
we prepared to leave, we offered Smith a chance to accompany us
through Cataract Canyon, telling him that we would help him with his
boat until the quiet water of Glen Canyon was reached. He declined
the opportunity, saying that he would rather travel slowly and do
what trapping he could. He welcomed a chance to take a ride on the
_Defiance_, however. We took him over two small rapids, and gave
him an insight into our method of avoiding the dangers. He was very
enthusiastic about it. On reaching the next rapid we all concluded
it would be very unwise to carry any passengers, for it was violent
water, so he got out on the shore.
[Illustration: A NARROW CHANNEL AT RAPID NO. 22.]
[Illustration: DEVELOPING TESTS.]
Smith had once seen some moving pictures of Japanese shooting rapids,
but he said they were nothing compared to these, remarking that a
bronco could hardly buck any harder. The next rapid was just as
bad, Rapid No. 14 for Cataract Canyon, and Smith helped us secure
a motion picture. Then he prepared to return to his camp. Just
before leaving he explained rather apologetically, that ranchers, or
others, were usually very unfriendly to a stranger coming into their
section of the country. He had heard us shooting at the ducks and he
imagined we belonged in some of the side canyons or on the top. This
explained his puzzling attitude at our first meeting. If he had any
beaver skins in his pack this would make him even more suspicious of
strangers. We wished him nothing but the best of luck, and were good
friends when we parted. His decision to make the trip alone, poorly
equipped as he was, seemed like suicide to us. He promised to write
to us if he got out, and with a final wave of the hand we left him on
the shore.
The rapid just passed was possibly the scene of the disaster
discovered by the Stone expedition. They found a clumsy boat close to
the shore, jammed in a mass of rocks, smashed and abandoned. There
were tracks of three people in the sand, one track being a boy’s. A
coat was left on the shore. The tracks disappeared up a box canyon.
Mr. Stone corresponded with the only settlements in all that region,
few in number, and far distant; but nothing was ever heard of them.
Two other parties have left Green River, Utah, within a year of this
find and disappeared in like manner. This seemed to be the usual
result of these attempts. In nearly every case they have started in
boats that are entirely unfitted for rough water, and, seemingly
without any knowledge of the real danger ahead, try to follow where
others, properly equipped, have gone through.
What a day of excitement that was! We always thought we needed a
certain amount of thrills to make life sufficiently interesting for
us. In a few hours’ time, in the central portion of Cataract Canyon,
we experienced nearly enough thrills to last us a lifetime. In one
or two of the upper canyons we thought we were running rapids. Now
we were learning what rapids really were. No sooner were we through
one than another presented itself. At each of them we climbed along
the boulder-strewn shores--the lower slopes growing steeper, the
walls above towering higher--clear to the end of the rapid. Looking
upstream we could pick out the submerged rocks hidden in the muddy
water, and looking like an innocent wave from above. Twice we had
picked out channels in sharp drops, after carefully observing their
actions and deciding they were free from obstructions, when suddenly
the waves would part for an instant and disclose a hidden rock--in
one case as sharp as a hound’s tooth--sure disaster if we ever
struck it. As soon as we had decided on a channel we would lose
no time in getting back to our boats and running it, for we could
feel our courage oozing from our finger tips with each second’s
delay. Time and again we got through just by a scratch. Success bred
confidence; I distinctly remember feeling that water alone would
not upset the boat; that it would take a collision with a rock to
do it. And each time we got through. Twice I almost had reason to
reverse my impression of the power of water. First the stern rose
up in front of me, as if squaring off at the tops of the cliffs,
then descended, until it seemed to be trying to plumb the depths of
the river. The waves, rolling over me, almost knocked me out of the
boat, I lost my hold on the oars and grabbed the sides of the boat;
then, regaining the oars, I finished the run by pulling with the bow
headed downstream, for the boat had “swapped ends” in the interval,
and was heavy with about three barrels of water in the cockpit. I
bailed out with a grocery box, kept under the seat for that purpose.
It had been growing quite cold, and Emery’s indisposition--or what
was really acute indigestion--had weakened him for the past two days,
but he pluckily declined to stop. I was soaked with my last immersion
and chilled with the wind, so concluded there was no use having him
go through the same experience and I ran his boat while he made a
picture. We were both ready to camp then, but there was no suitable
place and we had to push on to the next rapid. On looking it over we
almost gave up our intention of running it. It was about a fourth of
a mile long; a mass of submerged rocks extended entirely across the
river; the entire rapid seemed impossible. We finally concluded it
might be run by shooting up, stern first, on a sloping rock near the
shore, then return as the current recoiled and ran back, dividing on
either side of the rock. The only clear channel was one about twelve
feet wide, between this rock and the shore. A projecting shore above
prevented a direct entrance to this channel.
We threw logs in and watched their action. In each case they paused
when within five or six feet of the top of the slope, then returned
with the current, whirled back to the side and shot through close to
the shore. We planned to go through as close together as possible.
Emery was ready first, I held back in a protecting pool, waiting
for him to get out of the way. He got his position, facing stern
downstream, gave the slightest shove forward, and the released boat
whizzed down for fifty feet and ran up on the rock. She paused a
moment, as the water prepared to return. He gave two quick pulls,
shooting back again, slightly to the right, until he struck the
narrow channel, then reversed his course and went through stern first
exactly as we had planned it. The square stern, buoyed up by the
air-chamber, lifted the boat out of the resulting wave as he struck
the bottom of the descent. This much of the rapid had only taken a
few seconds.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
RAPID NO. 22 IN CATARACT CANYON.]
I followed at once, but was not so fortunate. The _Defiance_ was
carried to the left side, where some water dropped over the side of
the rock, instead of reversing. I pulled frantically, seeing visions,
meanwhile, of the boat and myself being toppled off the side of the
rock, into the boulders and waves below. My rowing had no effect
whatever, but the boat was grabbed by the returning wave and shot, as
if from a catapult, back and around to the right, through the sloping
narrow channel,--my returning course describing a half circle.
Instead of rising, the pointed bow cut down into the waves until the
water was on my shoulders. Emery turned his head for an instant to
see what success I was having, and his boat was thrown on to a rock
close to the shore. I passed him and landed, just before going into
the next rapid. I then went back and helped him off the rock, and
he continued his course over the leaping waves. He broke a rowlock
before he landed, and had to use the substitute we had hung beside it.
We found a good spot for a camp just above the next rapid. Our tent
was stretched in front of a large boulder. A large pile of driftwood
gave us all the fuel needed, and we soon had a big fire going and our
wet clothes steaming on the line.