FOUR DAYS TO YUMA
Before sunrise the following morning, I had completed my few camp
duties, finished my breakfast and dropped my boat into the whirlpool
above the bridge. My two friends watched the manœuvre as I pulled
clear of the logs and the piers which caused the water to make such
alarming sounds the night before; then they gave me a final word of
caution, and the information that the Parker Bridge was sixty miles
away and that Yuma was two hundred and fifty miles down the stream.
They thought that I should reach Yuma in a week. It seemed but a few
minutes until the bridge was a mile up the stream. Now I was truly
embarked for the gulf.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
THE CORK SCREW: LOWER END OF BRIGHT ANGEL TRAIL.]
By the time I had reached the spire-like mountainous rocks a few
miles below the bridge, which gave the town of Needles its name, the
sun was well up and I was beginning to learn what desert heat was,
although I had little time to think of it as I was kept so busy with
my boat. Here, the stream which was spread a mile wide above, had
choked down to two hundred feet; small violent whirlpools formed at
the abrupt turns in this so-called canyon and the water tore from
side to side. In one whirl my boat was twice carried around the
circle into which I had allowed it to be caught, then shot out on
the pounding flood. Soon the slag-like mountains were passed and the
country began to spread, first in a high barren land, then with a
bottom land running back from the river. The willow bushes changed
to willow trees, tall and spindly, crowded in a thicket down to the
river’s edge. The Chemehuevi Indians have their reservation here.
On rounding an abrupt turn I surprised two little naked children,
fat as butterballs, dabbling in a mud puddle close to the stream.
The sight, coupled with the tropical-like heat and the jungle, could
well make one imagine he was in Africa or India, and that the little
brown bodies were the “alligator bait” of which we read. Only the
’gators were missing. The unexpected sight of a boat and a white man
trying to photograph them started them both into a frightened squall.
Then an indignant mother appeared, staring at me as though she would
like to know what I had done to her offspring. Farther along were
other squaws, with red and blue lines pencilled on their childlike,
contented faces, seated under the willows. Their cotton garments, of
red and blue bandanna handkerchiefs sewed together, added a gay bit
of colour to the scene.
Below this were two or three cozy little ranch houses and a few
scattered cattle ranches, with cattle browsing back in the trees. All
this time it was getting hotter, and I was thankful for my sheltering
cover. My lunch, prepared in the morning, was eaten as I drifted.
Except in a few quiet stretches I did little rowing, just enough
to keep the boat away from the overhanging banks and in the strong
current.
The bottom lands began to build up again with banks of gravel and
clay, growing higher with every mile. The deciduous trees gave
way to the desert growths: the cholla, “the shower of gold,” and
the palo verde and the other acacias. Here were the California or
valley-quail; and lean, long-legged jack-rabbits. Here too were the
coyotes, leaner than the rabbits, but efficient, shifty-eyed, and
insolent. One could admire but could hardly respect them.
I had entertained hopes of reaching Parker that evening, but supposed
the hour would be late if I reached it at all. Imagine my surprise,
then, when at half-past four I heard the whistle of a train, and
another turn revealed the Parker bridge. I had been told by others
that it had taken them three or four days to reach this point on a
low stage of water. Evidently the high water is much better for rapid
and interesting travel.
Here at the bridge, which was a hundred feet above the river, was a
dredge, and an old flat-bottomed steamboat, a relic of a few years
past, before the government built the Laguna dam above Yuma, and
condemned the Colorado as a navigable stream. Those were the days
which the Colorado steamboat men recall with as much fond remembrance
as the old-time boatmen of the Mississippi remember their palmy days.
In spite of the fact that the boats were flat-bottomed and small, it
was real steamboating of an exciting nature at least. At times they
beat up against the current as far as the mouth of the Rio Virgin. In
low water the channels shifted back and forth first choked with sand
on one side of the stream, then on the other. While the total fall
from Fort Mojave, a few miles above Needles, to the Gulf is only 525
feet, considerable of that fall came in short sections, first with a
swift descent, then in a quiet stretch. Even in the high-water stage
I was finding some such places.
Parker stood a mile back from the river, on top of the level gravelly
earth which stretched for miles on either side of the river clear to
the mountains. This earth and gravel mixture was so firmly packed
that even the cactus had a scant foothold. The town interested me
for one reason only, this being, that I could get my meals for the
evening and the following morning, instead of having to cook them
myself. After I had eaten them, however, there was a question in my
mind if my own cooking, bad as it was, would not have answered the
purpose just as well. The place was a new railroad town on an Indian
reservation, a town of great expectations, somewhat deferred.
It was not as interesting to me as my next stop at Ahrenburg, some
fifty miles below Parker. This place while nothing but a collection
of dilapidated adobe buildings, had an air of romance about it which
was missing in the newer town. Ahrenburg had seen its day. Many years
ago it was a busy mining camp, and the hope is entertained by the
faithful who still reside in its picturesque adobe homes that it will
come back with renewed vigour. Here at Ahrenburg I met a character
who added greatly to the interest of my stay. He was a gigantic,
raw-boned Frenchman, at that time engaged in the construction of
a motor boat; but a miner, a sailor, and a soldier of fortune in
many ways, one who had pried into many of the hidden corners of
the country and had a graphic way of describing what he had seen.
I was his guest until late that night, and was entertained royally
on what humble fare he had to offer. We both intended to renew our
acquaintance in the morning, but some prowling Mexicans near my boat,
croaking frogs, and swarms of mosquitos gave me a restless night.
With the first glimmer of daylight I was up, and half an hour later I
was away on the flood.
This was my big day. The current was better than much of that above;
I was getting used to the heat, and, instead of idly drifting, I
pulled steadily at the oars. The river twisted back and forth in
great loops with the strong current, as is usual, always on the
outside of the loops, close to the overhanging banks. I would keep my
boat in this current, with a wary lookout over my shoulder for fallen
trees and sudden turns, which had a way of appearing when least
expected. At some such places the stream was engaged at undermining
the banks which rose eight and ten feet above the water. Occasional
sections, containing tons of earth and covered with tall, slender
willow trees, would topple over, falling on the water with the roar
of a cannon or a continued salute of cannons; for the falling, once
started, quite often extended for half a mile down the stream. At
one such place eighteen trees fell in three minutes, and it would
be safe to say that a hundred trees were included in the extended
fall. The trees, sixty feet high, resembled a field of gigantic grass
or unripened grain; the river was a reaper, cutting it away at the
roots. Over they tumbled to be buried in the stream; the water would
swirl and boil, earth and trees would disappear; then the mass of
leaf-covered timber, freed of the earth, would wash away to lodge on
the first sand-bar, and the formation of a new island or a new shore
would begin.
Then again, the banks were barren, composed of gravel and clay,
centuries older than the verdure-covered land, undisturbed, possibly,
since some glacial period deposited it there. But a shifting of
the channel directed the attack against these banks. Here the swift
current would find a little irregularity on the surface and would
begin its cutting. The sand-laden water bored exactly like an auger,
in fast-cutting whirls. One such place I watched for a half-hour from
the very beginning, until the undermined section, fourteen feet high,
began to topple, and I pulled out to safety, but not far enough to
escape a ducking in the resulting wave.
Below this, instead of a firm earth, it was a loose sand and gravel
mixture twenty feet above the river. Here for half a mile the entire
bank was moving, slowly at the top, gathering speed at the bottom.
While close to this I heard a peculiar hissing as of carbonated
water all about me. At first I thought there were mineral springs
underneath, but found the noise was caused by breaking air bubbles
carried under the stream with the sands. All this day such phenomena
continued, sliding sand-banks and tumbling jungles. In these latter
places some cattle had suffered. Their trails ran parallel with the
stream. No doubt they had one or two places where they drank cut down
to the stream. Knowing nothing of the cutting underneath, they had
been precipitated into the flood, and now their carcasses were food
for swarms of vultures gathered for an unholy feast.
What powerful, graceful birds these scavengers are, stronger than
the eagle even, tireless and seemingly motionless as they drift along
searching every nook and cranny for their provender! But aside from a
grudgingly given tribute of admiration for their power, one has about
as much respect for them as for the equally graceful rattlesnake,
that other product of nature which flourishes in this desert land.
The bird life along this lower part of the river was wonderful in its
variety. The birds of the desert mingled with those of the fertile
lands. The song-birds vied with those of gorgeous plume. Water-birds
disported themselves in the mud-banks and sloughs. The smaller
birds seemed to pay little attention to the nearness of the hawks.
Kingfisher perched on limbs overhanging the quiet pools, ready to
drop at the faintest movement on the opaque water; the road-runner
chased the festive lizard on the desert land back of the willows.
Here also in the mesquite and giant cactus were thrush and Western
meadow-larks and mocking-birds mimicking the call of the cat-bird.
Down in the brush by the river was the happy little water-ousel,
as cheerful in his way as the dumpy-built musical canyon wren. The
Mexican crossbill appeared to have little fear of the migrating
Northern shrike. There were warblers, cardinals, tanagers, waxwings,
song-sparrows, and chickadees. Flitting droves of bush-tit dropped
on to slender weeds, scarcely bending them, so light were they. Then
in a minute they were gone. In the swamps or marshes were countless
red-winged blackbirds.
The most unobservant person could not help but see birds here. I had
expected to find water-fowl, for the Colorado delta is their breeding
place; but I little expected to find so many land birds in the trees
along the river. Instead of having a lonesome trip, every minute
was filled with something new, interesting, and beautiful and I was
having the time of my life.
I camped that night at Picachio,--meaning the Pocket,--eighty miles
below Ahrenburg. This is still a mining district, but the pockets
containing nuggets of gold which gave the place its name seem to have
all been discovered at the time of the boom; the mining now done is
in quartz ledges up on the sides of grim, mineral-stained hills.
I was back in the land of rock again, a land showing the forces
of nature in high points of foreign rock, shot up from beneath,
penetrating the crust of the earth and in a few places emerging for
a height of two hundred feet from the river itself, forming barren
islands and great circling whirlpools, as large as that in the
Niagara gorge, and I thought, for a while, almost as powerful. In one
I attempted to keep to the short side of the river, but found it a
difficult job, and one which took three times as long to accomplish
as if I had allowed myself to be carried around the circle.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
ZOROASTER TEMPLE: FROM THE END OF BRIGHT ANGEL TRAIL.]
Then the land became level again, and the Chocolate Mountains were
seen to the west. A hard wind blew across the stream, so that I had
to drop my sunshade to prevent being carried against the rocks. This
day I passed a large irrigation canal leading off from the stream,
the second such on the entire course of the Colorado. Here a friendly
ranchman called to me from the shore and warned me of the Laguna dam
some distance below. He said the water was backed up for three miles,
so I would know when I was approaching it.
In spite of this warning, I nearly came to grief at the dam. The wind
had shifted until it blew directly down the stream. The river, nearly
a mile wide, still ran with a powerful current; I ceased rowing and
drifted down, over waves much like those one would find on a lake
driven by a heavy wind. I saw some high poles and a heavy electric
cable stretched across the stream, and concluded that this was the
beginning of the dam. I began to look ahead for some sign of a
barrier across the stream, far below, but I could see nothing of the
kind; then as I neared the poles it suddenly dawned on me that there
was no raised barrier which diverted all the water through a sluice,
but a submerged dam, over which the flood poured, and that the poles
were on that dam.
My sail-like sunshade was dropped as quickly as I could do it, and,
grabbing the oars, I began to pull for the California shore.
It was fortunate for me that I happened to be comparatively near the
shore when I began rowing. As it was, I landed below the diverting
canal, and about a hundred yards above the dam. On examination the
dam proved to be a slope about fifty feet long. A man in charge of
the machinery controlling the gates told me that the dam lacked seven
feet of being a mile wide, and that approximately seven feet of water
was going over the entire dam.
Great cement blocks and rocks had been dropped promiscuously
below the dam to prevent it from being undermined. Even without
the rocks it was doubtful if an uncovered boat could go through
without upsetting. The great force of the water made a trough four
or five feet lower than the river level, all water coming down the
slope shooting underneath, while the river rolled back upstream.
On two occasions boatmen had been carried over the dam. In each
case the boat was wrecked, but the occupants were thrown out and
escaped uninjured. I could not help but be amused, and feel a little
uncomfortable too, when I saw how nearly I came to being wrecked
here, after having escaped that fate in the rapids of the canyons.
I ran my boat back to the diverting canal, then rowed down to the
massive cement gates, which looked to me like a small replica of some
of the locks on the Panama Canal. With the help of an Indian who was
ready for a job my boat was taken out, rolled around the buildings
on some sections of pipe, and slid over the bank into the canal below
the gates.
In spite of a desire to spend some time inspecting the machinery of
this great work,--which, with the canal and other improvements, had
cost the government over a million dollars--I immediately resumed my
rowing. It was mid-afternoon, and measured by the canal, which was
direct, it was twelve miles to Yuma. But I soon learned that great
winding curves made it much farther by the river. In some cases it
nearly doubled back on itself. The wind had shifted by this time and
blew against me so hard that it was almost useless to attempt rowing.
In another place there were no banks, and the water had spread for
three miles in broken sloughs and around half-submerged islands, the
one deep channel being lost in the maze of shallow ones. With these
things to contend with it was dusk long before I neared the town, the
twelve miles having stretched to twenty. Finally I saw a windmill
partly submerged. Some distance away was a small ranch house also in
the water. The house, with lights in the upper story, was a cheering
sight; the windmill looked out of place in the midst of all this
desolation of water. Soon other houses appeared with lights showing
through the windows. Once I lost my way and spent a half hour in
getting back to the right channel.
Somewhere in the dark, I never knew just when, I passed the mouth of
the Gila River. In a similar way in broad daylight I had passed the
Bill Williams Fork above Ahrenburg.
At last I neared the town. I could discern some buildings on top of
a small hill, evidently one of the back streets of Yuma. After tying
my boat, I hid my small load in some mesquite trees, then climbed the
hill and passed between two peculiar stone houses dark as dungeons.
They puzzled me from the outside, but when once past them, I was
no longer in doubt. I had entered the open gateway leading to the
courtyard of the Yuma penitentiary. No wonder the buildings looked
like dungeons. This was a new experience for me, but somehow I had
always imagined just how it would look. I was considering beating a
retreat when a guard hailed me and asked me if I was not lost. With
the assistance of the guard, I escaped from the pen and found my way
to the streets of Yuma, just four days after leaving the Needles
bridge.