SIGNALLING OUR CANYON HOME
How long we had waited for this view! How many memories it
recalled--and how different it seemed to our previous visit there!
Then, the high water was on, and the turquoise-tinted mineral water
of the Colorado Chiquito was backed up by the turbid flood waters of
the Rio Colorado, forty feet or more above the present level. Now
it was a rapid stream, throwing itself with wild abandon over the
rocks and into the Colorado. There was the same deserted stone hut,
built by a French prospector, many years before, and a plough that
he had packed in over a thirty-mile trail--the most difficult one
in all this rugged region! There was the little grass-plot where we
pastured the burro, while we made a fifteen-mile walk up the bed of
this narrow canyon! What a hard, hot journey it had been! A year and
a half ago we sat on that rock, and talked of the day when we should
come through here in boats! Even then we talked of building a raft,
and of loading the burro on it for a spin on the flood waters. Lucky
for us and for the burro that we didn’t! We understand the temper of
these waters now.
Cape Desolation, a point of the Painted Desert on the west side
of the Little Colorado, was almost directly above us, 3200 feet
high. Chuar Butte, equally as high and with walls just as nearly
perpendicular, extended on into the Grand Canyon on the right side,
making the narrowest canyon of this depth that we had seen. The
Navajo reservation terminated at the Little Colorado, although
nothing but the maps indicated that we had passed from the land of
the Red man to that of the White. Both were equally desolate, and
equally wonderful. With the entrance of the new stream the canyon
changes its southwest trend and turns directly west, and continues to
hold to this general direction until the northwest corner of Arizona
is reached.
But we must be on again! Soon familiar segregated peaks in the Grand
Canyon began to appear. There was Wotan’s Throne on the right, and
the “Copper Mine Mesa” on the left. Three or four miles below the
junction a four-hundred foot perpendicular wall rose above us. The
burro, on our previous visit, was almost shoved off that cliff when
the pack caught on a rock, and was only saved by strenuous pulling
on the neck-rope and pack harness. Soon we passed some tunnels on
both sides of the river where the Mormon miners had tapped a copper
ledge. At 4.15 P.M. we were at the end of the Tanner Trail, the
outlet of the Little Colorado Trail to the rim above. It had taken
seven hours of toil to cover the same ground we now sped over in an
hour and a quarter. Major Powell, in 1872, found here the remnant
of a very small hut built of mesquite logs, but whether the remains
of an Indian’s or white man’s shelter cannot be stated. The trail,
without doubt was used by the Indians before the white man invaded
this region.
[Illustration: END OF MARBLE CANYON, FROM THE MOUTH OF THE LITTLE
COLORADO.]
[Illustration: CATARACTS OF THE LITTLE COLORADO RIVER.]
The canyon had changed again from one which was very narrow to one
much more complex, greater, and grander. The walls on top were many
miles apart; Comanche Point, to our left, was over 4000 feet above
us; Desert View, Moran Point, and other points on the south rim were
even higher. On the right we could see an arch near Cape Final on
Greenland Point, over 5000 feet up, that we had photographed, from
the top, a few years before. Pagoda-shaped temples--the formation
so typical of the Grand Canyon--clustered on all sides. The upper
walls were similar in tint to those in Marble Canyon, but here at
the river was a new formation; the algonkian, composed of thousands
of brilliantly coloured bands of rock, standing at an angle--the one
irregularity to the uniform layers of rock--a remnant of thousands
of feet of rock which once covered this region, then was planed away
before the other deposits were placed. All about us, close to the
river, was a deep, soft sand formed by the disintegration of the
rocks above, as brilliantly coloured as the rocks from which they
came. What had been a very narrow stream above here spread out over
a thousand feet wide, ran with a good current, and seemed to be
anything but a shallow stream at that.
We had travelled far that day but still sped on,--with a few rapids
which did not retard, but rather helped us on our way, and with a
good current between these rapids,--only stopping to camp when a
three-hundred foot wall rose sheer from the river’s edge, bringing
to an end our basin-like river bottom, where one could walk out on
either side. It was not necessary to hunt for driftwood this evening,
for a thicket of mesquite--the best of all wood for a camp-fire--grew
out of the sand-dunes, and some half-covered dead logs were unearthed
from the drifted sand, and soon reduced to glowing coals.
Meanwhile, we were enjoying one of those remarkable Arizona desert
sunsets. Ominous clouds had been gathering in the afternoon, rising
from the southwest, drifting across the canyon, and piling up against
the north wall. A few fleecy clouds in the west partially obscured
the sun until it neared the horizon, then a shaft of sunlight broke
through once more, telegraphing its approach long before it reached
us, the rays being visibly hurled through space like a javelin, or a
lightning bolt, striking peak after peak so that one almost imagined
they would hear the thunder roll. A yellow flame covered the western
sky, to be succeeded in a few minutes by a crimson glow. The sharply
defined colours of the different layers of rock had merged and
softened, as the sun dropped from sight; purple shadows crept into
the cavernous depths, while shafts of gold shot to the very tiptop
of the peaks, or threw their shadows like silhouettes on the wall
beyond. Then the scene shifted again, and it was all blood-red,
reflecting from the sky and staining the rocks below, so that distant
wall and sky merged, with little to show where the one ended and
the other began. That beautiful haze, which tints, but does not
obscure, enshrouded the temples and spires, changing from heliotrope
to lavender, from lavender to deepest purple; there was a departing
flare of flame like the collapse of a burning building; a few
clouds in the zenith, torn by the winds so that they resembled the
craters of the moon, were tinted for an instant around the crater’s
rims; the clouds faded to a dove-like gray; they darkened; the gray
disappeared; the purple crept from the canyon into the arched dome
overhead; the day was ended, twilight passed, and darkness settled
over all.
We sat silently by the fire for a few minutes, then rose and resumed
our evening’s work. This camp was at a point that could be seen from
the Grand View hotel, fourteen miles from our home. We talked of
building a signal fire on the promontory above the camp, knowing
that the news would be telephoned to our home if the fire was seen. But
we gave up the plan. Although less than twenty miles from Bright
Angel Trail, we were not safely through by any means. Two boats had
been wrecked or lost in different rapids less than six miles from
this camp. The forty-foot fall in the Hance or Red Canyon Rapid was
three miles below us; the Sockdologer, the Grapevine, and other
rapids nearly as large followed those; we might be no more fortunate
than the others, and a delay after once giving a signal would cause
more anxiety than no signal at all we thought, and the fire was not
built.
Particular attention was paid to the loading of the boats the next
morning. The moving-picture film was tucked in the toes of our
sleeping bags, and the protecting bags were carefully laced. We were
not going to take any chances in this next plunge--the much-talked-of
entrance to the granite gorge. A half-hour’s run and a dash through
one violent rapid landed us at the end of the Hance Trail--unused
for tourist travel for several years--with a few torn and tattered
tents back in the side canyon down which the trail wound its way. We
half hoped that we would find some of the prospectors who make this
section their winter home either at the Tanner or the Hance Trail,
but there was no sign of recent visitors at either place, unless
it was the numerous burro tracks in the sand. These tracks were
doubtless made by some of the many wild burros that roam all the
lower plateaus in the upper end of the Grand Canyon.
[Illustration: END OF HANCE TRAIL. SMALL WHITE LINE IS AN INTRUSION
OF QUARTZ IN THE ALGONKIAN.]
After a careful inspection of the Hance Rapid we were glad the
signal fire was not built. It was a nasty rapid. While reading over
our notes one evening we were amused to find that we had catalogued
different rapids with an equal amount of fall as “good,” “bad,” or
“nasty,” the difference depending nearly altogether on the rocks in
the rapids. The “good rapids” were nothing but a descent of “big
water,” with great waves,--for which we cared little, but rather
enjoyed if it was not too cold,--and with no danger from rocks; the
“bad rapids” contained rocks, and twisting channels, but with half a
chance of getting through. A nasty rapid was filled with rocks, many
of them so concealed in the foam that it was often next to impossible
to tell if rocks were there or not, and in which there was little
chance of running through without smashing a boat. The Hance Rapid
was such a one.
Such a complication of twisted channels and protruding rocks
we had not seen unless it was at Hell’s Half Mile. It meant a
portage--nothing less--the second since leaving that other rapid in
Lodore. So we went to work, carrying our duffle across deep, soft
sand-dunes, down to the middle of the rapid, where quieted for a
hundred yards before it made the final plunge. The gathering dusk of
evening found all material and one boat at this spot, with the other
one at the head of the rapid, to be portaged the next day. But we did
not portage this boat. A good night’s rest, and the safeguard of a
boat at the bottom of the plunge made it look much less dangerous,
and five minutes after breakfast was finished, this boat was beside
its mate, and we had a reel of film which we hoped would show just
how we successfully ran this difficult rapid. While going over the
second section, on the opposite side of the river, Emery was thrown
out of his boat for an instant when the _Edith_ touched a rock
in a twenty-five mile an hour current, similar to my first upset
in the Soap Creek Rapid--the old story: out again; in again; on
again--landing in safety at the end of the rapid not one whit the
worse for the spill.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
IN THE GRANITE GORGE BELOW THE SOCKDOLOGER RAPID. EXTREME HEIGHT OF
WALL ABOUT FIVE THOUSAND FEET.]
This rapid marks the place where the granite, or igneous rock,
intrudes, rising at a sharp angle, sloping upward down the stream,
reaching the height of 1300 feet about one mile below. It marks the
end of the large deposit of algonkian. The granite, when it attains
its highest point, is covered with a 200-foot layer of sedimentary
rock called the tonto sandstone. The top of this formation is exposed
by a plateau from a quarter of a mile to three miles in width,
on either side of the granite gorge; the same walls which were
found in Marble Canyon rise above this. The temples which are
scattered through the canyon--equal in height, in many cases, to the
walls--have their foundation on this plateau. These peaks contain
the same stratified rock with a uniform thickness whether in peak or
wall, with little displacement and little sign of violent uplift,
nearly all this canyon being the work of erosion: 5000 feet from the
rim to the river; the edges of six great layers of sedimentary rock
laid bare and with a narrow 1300-foot gorge through the igneous rock
below--the Grand Canyon of Arizona.
The granite gorge seemed to us to be the one place of all others that
we had seen on this trip that would cause one to hesitate a long time
before entering, if nothing definite was known of its nature. Another
person might have felt the same way of the canyons we had passed,
Lodore or Marble Canyon, for instance. A great deal depends on the
nerves and digestion, no doubt; and the same person would look at it
in a different light at different times, as we found from our own
experiences. Our digestions were in excellent condition just at that
time, and we were nerved up by the thought that we were going “to
the plate for a home run” if possible, yet the granite gorge had a
decidedly sinister look. The walls, while not sheer, were nearly so;
they might be climbed in many places to the top of the granite; but
the tonto sandstone wall nearly always overhangs this, breaks sheer,
and seldom affords an outlet to the plateaus above, except where
lateral canyons cut through. The rocks are very dark, with dikes
of quartz, and with twisting seams of red and black granite, the
great body of rock being made up of decomposed micaceous schists and
gneiss, a treacherous material to climb. The entrance to this gorge
is made on a quiet pool with no shore on either side after once well
in.
But several parties had been through since Major Powell made his
initial trip, so we did not hesitate, but pushed on with the current.
Now we could truly say that we were going home. The Hance Rapid was
behind us; Bright Angel Creek was about twelve miles away. Soon we
were in the deepest part of the gorge. Great dikes and uplifts of
jagged rocks towered above us; and up, up, up, lifted the other walls
above that. Bissell Point, on the very top, could plainly be seen
from our quiet pool.
Then came a series of rapids quite different from the Hance Rapid,
and many others found above. Those others were usually caused in
part by the detritus or deposit from side canyons, which dammed the
stream, and what might be a swift stream, with a continuous drop, was
transformed to a succession of mill-ponds and cataracts, or rapids.
In nearly every case, in low water such as we were travelling on, the
deposit made a shore on which we could land and inspect the rapid
from below. The swift water invariably makes a narrow channel if
it has no obstruction in its way; it is the quiet stream that makes
a wide channel. But the rapids we found this day were nearly all
different. They were seldom caused by great deposits of rock, but
appeared to be formed by a dike or ledge of hard rock rising from
the softer rock--the same intrusion being sometimes found on both
sides of the stream--forming a dam the full width of the channel,
over which the water made a swift descent, with a long line of
interference waves below. But for a cold wind which swept up the
stream, this style of rapid was more to our fancy. These were “good
rapids,” the “best” we had seen. There were few rocks to avoid. Some
of the rapids were violent, but careful handling took us past every
danger. There was little chance to make a portage at several of these
places had we desired to do so. We gave them but a glance from the
decks of the boats, then dropped into them. In one instance I saw the
_Edith_ literally shoot through a wave bow first, both ends of the
boat being visible, while her captain was buried in the foam.
We had learned to discriminate by its noise, long before we could see
a rapid, whether it was filled with rocks, or was merely a descent of
big water. The latter, often just as impressive as the former, had a
sullen, steady boom; the rocky rapids had the same sound, punctuated
by another sound, like the crack of regiments of musketry. All were
greatly magnified in sound by the narrow, echoing walls. We became
so accustomed to this noise that we almost forgot it was there,
and it was only after the long, quiet stretches that the noise was
noticed. In a few instances only we noticed the shattering vibration
of air that is associated with waterfalls. Still there is noise
enough in many rapids so that their boom can be heard several miles
away from the top of the canyons.
Guided by these sounds, and aided by our method of holding the boat
in mid-stream, while making a reconnaissance, we were quite well
aware of what we were likely to find before we anchored above a
rapid. We were never fearful of being drawn into a cataract without
having a chance to land somewhere. The water is strangely quiet, to a
comparatively close distance above nearly all rapids. We usually tied
up anywhere from fifty feet to a hundred yards above a drop, before
inspecting it. If it was a “big-water” rapid, we usually looked it
over standing on the seat in the boats, then continued. By signals
with the hands, the one first over would guide the other, if any
hidden rocks or dangerous channel threatened. While we did not think
much about it, we usually noted the places where one might climb out
on the plateau. Little could be told about the upper walls from the
river.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
THE RUST TRAMWAY. SPAN FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY FEET.]
A chilling wind swept up the river, penetrating our soaked garments.
But we paid little attention to this, only pulling the harder, not
only to keep the circulation going, but every pull of the oars
put us that much nearer home. We never paused in our rowing until we
anchored at 4.30 P.M. under Rust’s tramway, close to the mouth of
Bright Angel Creek. According to the United States Geological Survey
there is a descent of 178 feet from the head of the Hance Rapid to
the end of Bright Angel Trail one mile below the creek. We would have
a very moderate descent in that mile. The run from the Hance Rapid
had been made in less than five hours.
Our boats were tied in the shadow of the cage hanging from a cable
sixty feet above. It stretched across a quiet pool, 450 feet
across--for the river is dammed by débris from the creek below, and
fills the channel from wall to wall. Hurriedly we made our way up
to Rust’s camp,--closed for the winter; for heavy snows would cover
the North Rim in a few days or a few weeks at the farthest, filling
the trails with heavy drifts and driving the cougar into the canyon
where dogs and horses cannot follow. But the latch-string was out
for us, we knew, had we cared to use the tents. Our signal fire was
built a mile above the camp, at a spot that was plainly visible on a
clear day from our home on the other side, six miles away as the crow
flies. We had often looked at this spot, with a telescope, from the
veranda of our studio, watching the hunting and sight-seeing parties
ride up the bed of the stream. We rather feared the drifting clouds
and mists would hide the fire from view, but now and then a rift
appeared, and we knew if they were looking they could see its light.
Camp No. 51 was made close to Bright Angel Creek, that evening,
Thursday, October the 16th, two months and eight days from the time
we had embarked on our journey.
Three or four hours were spent in packing our material the next
morning, so it could be stored in a miners’ tunnel, near the end
of the trail. We would pack little of this out, as we intended to
resume our river work in a week or ten days. A five-minute run took
us over the rapid below Bright Angel Creek, and down to a bend in the
river, just above the Cameron or Bright Angel Trail. Two men--guides
from the hotel--called to us as our boats swept into view. We made
a quick dash over the vicious little drop below the bend,--easy for
our boats, but dangerous enough for lighter craft on account of a
difficult whirlpool,--and were soon on shore greeting old friends. Up
on the plateau, 1300 feet above, a trail party of tourists and guides
called down their welcome. The stores were put in the miners’ tunnel
as we had planned, and the boats were taken above the high-water
mark; placed in dry dock one might say.
The guides had good news for us and bad news too. Emery’s wife
had been ill with appendicitis nearly all the time we were on our
journey. We had received letters from her at every post-office
excepting Lee’s Ferry, but never a hint that all was not well. She
knew it would break up the trip. Pretty good nerve, we thought!
Ragged and weary, but happy; a little lean and over-trained, but
feeling entirely “fit,”--we commenced our seven-mile climb up the
trail, every turn of which seemed like an old friend. When 1300
feet above the river, our little workshop beside a stream on the
plateau--only used at intervals when no water can be had on top,
and closed for three months past--gave us our first cheerless
greeting. Although little more than a hundred feet from the trail,
we did not stop to inspect it. Cameron’s Indian Garden Camp was
also closed for the day, and we were disappointed in a hope that we
could telephone to our home, 3200 feet above. But the tents, under
rows of waving cottonwoods, and surrounded by beds of blooming roses
and glorious chrysanthemums, gave us a more cheerful welcome than
our little building below. We only stopped to quench our thirst in
the bubbling spring, then began the four-mile climb that would put
us on top of the towering cliff. Soon we overtook the party we had
seen on the plateau. Some of the tourists kindly offered us their
mules, but mules were too slow for us, and they were soon far below
us. Calls, faint at first, but growing louder as we advanced, came
floating down from above. On nearing the top our younger brother
Ernest, who had come on from Pittsburg to look after our business,
came running down the trail to greet us. One member of a troupe of
moving-picture actors, in cowboy garb, remarked that we “didn’t look
like moving-picture explorers”; then little Edith emerged from our
studio just below the head of Bright Angel Trail and came skipping
down toward us, but stopped suddenly when near us, and said smilingly:
“Is that my Daddy with all those whiskers?”
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
BRIGHT ANGEL CREEK AND CANYON.]