Major Powell’s pages, describing portions of the Marble and Grand
Cañons. “The walls of the Cañon, twenty-five hundred feet high, are
of marble, of many beautiful colors, and often polished below by
the waves, or far up the sides, where showers have washed the sands
over the cliffs. At one place I have a walk, for more than a mile,
on a marble pavement, all polished and fretted with strange devices
and embossed in a thousand fantastic patterns. Through a cleft in
the wall the sun shines on this pavement, which gleams in iridescent
beauty.” “In other regions the rocks, when not covered with soil, or
more vigorous vegetation, are at least lichened, or stained, and the
rocks themselves are of sombre hue, but in this region they are naked,
and many of them brightly colored, as if painted by artist-gods; not
stained and daubed with inharmonious hues, but beautiful as flowers and
gorgeous as the clouds. Such are the walls of the Grand Cañon of the
Colorado where it divides the twin plateaus.”
No one can read even these few extracts without feeling convinced of
the truth of Captain Dutton’s remark that the Colorado Cañon is “a
great innovation in modern ideas of scenery, and in our conception of
the grandeur, beauty, and power of nature”; and without wishing to see
a portion at least of this Cañon. The Atlantic and Pacific Railroad
is at present the only one which brings tourists into its vicinity;
and the station to get off at is Peach Spring, about eighteen hours’
ride from Los Angeles, and situated twenty-three miles south of the
Grand Cañon. The region between Los Angeles and Peach Spring presents
many attractive features. First comes the city of Pasadena, with its
large hotel, charmingly situated near the foot of the mountains, the
sides of which present a peculiar wavy appearance. In some places they
are curiously furrowed and crevassed, as if the very mountains had
split themselves up into town lots during “boom” times. The surface
is bare in the autumn except for a few trees near the rocky summits;
but in spring the lower slopes are covered by millions of fragrant
flowers, springing as by magic from the dust. Other picturesquely
situated villages follow, some of which are destined no doubt to become
flourishing towns. At present they are a curious compound of unfinished
buildings, tents, and Mexican mud or adobe houses.
As the train proceeds in a northeastern direction, towards Barstow,
the region of alternative ocean and mountain breezes is gradually left
behind, and an arid desert of cactus, sand, and rocks is traversed. The
sun’s rays, no longer tempered by the ocean and mountain refrigerators,
have it all their own way, and the wind is powerless in their clutches.
For although a strong breeze is blowing, it feels like a blast from
a hot furnace, so that one hesitates whether to keep the car windows
open and desiccate, or closed and suffocate. Peach Spring I found to
be an Arizona village consisting of five saloons, six dwelling-houses,
a “stage” office, and an Indian camp in the background. It is so
called, apparently, because no _peach_ grows within a hundred miles,
and because the only _spring_ in the neighborhood is four miles from
the depot, whence the water is pumped to the station with an engine
fed with coal that is brought there from the station. Mr. Farlee, the
man who has this coal contract, also undertakes to convey tourists to
the Grand Cañon. He is an intelligent man, whose enterprise has built
a fair road, twenty-three miles in length, generally along or in a
dry river-bed, which, after every freshet, calls for extra labor in
clearing away the rocks wildly strewn about by the strong current. As
there is no possibility of missing this road, I secured a pony of Mr.
Farlee, and started alone for the Cañon; and on the whole way I saw
no soul except an Indian, who rather suspiciously went behind a tree
near the road as I approached. Being weaponless, I met any possible
scalp-hunting propensities on his part by a cordial “Good morning,”
which he as cordially echoed. The Indians of this neighborhood are
lazy, and, with few exceptions, refuse to do any work even for good
pay. Their filthiness, also, is great; and no wonder, considering that
the nearest spring is four miles away and monopolized by the railroad
company.
A mile or two beyond this spring is another one, where the horse may be
watered. During the remaining eighteen miles there is only one spring,
and if the traveller misses that, he has to suffer agonies of thirst,
unless he has wisely provided himself with a flask of tea or lemonade.
The brisk, hot breeze which sometimes blows only aids the physiological
desiccating process, and the result is a temporary dipsomania, in
the frenzy of which one would gladly give a gold coin for a glass of
lemonade. Nothing but forbidding cactus and a few similar tough and
spiny plants can resist this heat; hence the whole region seems barren,
and the few animals one may chance to see—a hawk, butterfly, rabbit, or
catamount—but add to the desolation of the scene. There is not a sound
in the air, and the silence is as absolute as on an Alpine snowfield,
or in mid-ocean during a calm. The slightest sound made in urging on
the weary horse is echoed by the hill-sides though they are several
miles away.
The mountain scenery is unique and grand, and becomes more so the
nearer we approach the Grand Cañon. For the road is a regular
_descensus Averno_, taking us deeper and deeper down between the
mountain walls; and when we reach the end of it we are almost a mile
nearer the sea-level than we were at Peach Spring.
At a spot about a mile from the river Mr. Farlee intends to erect a
large hotel. Sandstone, granite, and other fine building-material
lie about in profusion, and only need to be hewn and piled up
architecturally. At present there is nothing but a very primitive
hut, with accommodations for about a dozen persons. The inn is run by
one man, whose special duty it also is to keep his end of the road in
order; and a lonely life he must lead in this solitary hut, twenty
miles from any other human habitation. When there are no guests to take
care of, he fills his canteen with water and starts up the valley, to
roll the stones out of the road. In the evening he wraps himself in
his blanket and goes to sleep, with the starry firmament for a roof,
regardless of possible disagreeable neighbors, such as centipedes or
rattlesnakes. He says he sleeps in the open air two-thirds of the time,
and has not been ill for thirty-five years. Yet the heat in this part
of the Cañon (which is so deep that stars are often visible in the
daytime, and at night I saw a million more stars than ever before) must
be a terrible strain on his system, as it sometimes rises to 120° in
the shade, with not a breath of air.
I shall never forgive this man, or his employer, for having nothing
sour in the house except a spoonful of very bad vinegar—no pickles,
lemons, or even a grain of lemon sugar, which, by the way, every
traveller in hot regions should always carry with him. So I had to
content myself, on arrival, with tea and water. The water is good,
although superstitious people might hesitate to drink it, as it
comes from a brook—Diamond Creek—which seems to be bewitched. Just
in front of the hotel a portion of this creek, about half a mile in
length, disappears every day towards noon, although above and below
this place it flows on merrily and abundantly. About ten o’clock at
night the water suddenly returns to the deserted portion of its bed.
Mr. Farlee has repeatedly dug down many feet to find the subterranean
brook-bed, but in vain. It almost seems as if the water, after leaving
the cool and deep Diamond Cañon, were afraid of being absorbed by the
superheated air in the open space in which the hotel is situated, and
therefore concealed itself underground.
I still felt so desiccated, after my four cups of tea and about ten
glasses of lukewarm water, that I made the man in charge of the
hotel promise to wake me at 10 P.M., as soon as the mysterious creek
commenced to run again. He did so, depositing a bucket of the water
at my bed, and it was delightfully cool and refreshing. A breeze had
sprung up, and the night air was tolerably cool; but the man slept out
of doors all the same.
Possibly there may be a poetic Indian legend accounting in some such
manner for the fact that even the broad Colorado River has in this
region dug its way into the bowels of the earth so deeply that it now
runs more than a mile below the summit of its precipitous banks. Yet,
after all, there lies more poetry and sublimity in the scientific
account of the manner in which the soft water has, by infinitesimal
degrees, worn its channel through these hard rocks, and even through
the lava, with which Major Powell thinks this river-bed has been filled
more than once: “What a conflict of water and fire there must have been
here! Just imagine a river of molten rock running down into a river of
melted snow. What a seething and boiling of the waters; what clouds of
steam rolled into the heavens!” But it must be frankly admitted that
those who visit the Grand Cañon, with anticipations at fever heat from
reading Powell’s exciting and poetic description of his adventurous
trip down the Colorado, will be somewhat disappointed at first sight
of this river. It is about a mile from Farlee’s inn, and is reached by
following Diamond Creek, which empties into it. On comparing the mud
color of the Colorado with the crystalline purity of this creek, one
realizes to what the latter might owe its name.[2] Rapid the Colorado
is, and broad, and its walls do rise to the height of a mile, but they
slope and recede towards the background, and in vain does the tourist
look for the “granite prison walls” rising abruptly from the edge of
the water, and almost meeting above so as to shut out the daylight,
their sides adorned with floating clouds and with the water-falls and
cascades of tributary streams.
[2] It is said, however, that the creek owes its name to the fact that
diamonds were once “planted” here, to deceive investors.
Yet in truth it is foolish to look for all these things here—to expect
that all the wonders of Mr. Powell’s long and perilous tour should be
concentrated in one place for the convenience of tourists. The fact is,
that the most sublime portions of the Cañon are at present inaccessible
except to those who are willing to undergo the same dangers and
hardships as Major Powell. One can readily believe the legends of
parched travellers wandering along the brink of this Cañon for days,
and “perishing with thirst at last, in sight of the river which was
roaring its mockery into dying ears.” Powell himself once spent four
days wandering along the river, trying to get down. Diamond Creek
seems to afford the only entrance to the Grand Cañon. The Atlantic
and Pacific Railroad entertains a project of building an eighty-mile
branch road from Flagstaff to the Cañon. Such a road would offer many
attractions, as it would pass by some of the ancient cliff dwellings
and the snow-capped San Francisco Mountains. It would, however, arrive
at the top instead of at the bottom of the Cañon, which would thus
lose some of its cathedral grandeur. Possibly the tourists might be
let down to the river by means of a miner’s shaft, in which case a
ride of a few miles down the river on a boat (or “water-pony,” as the
Indians call it) should be added to the programme. But this would be
at the Marble Cañon. For the Grand Cañon, Peach Spring will probably
remain the stopping station; and for their partial disappointment in
the Grand Cañon itself, tourists will be amply repaid by a visit to
the Diamond Cañon, which is reached by going up Diamond Creek, a few
miles from Mr. Farlee’s inn. Here they will find what they longed to
see,—perpendicular, awe-inspiring walls, not, indeed, a mile, but
more than half a mile, in height (twenty-seven hundred feet), topped
with fanciful pinnacles and domes, and producing a feeling of gloomy
sublimity as refreshing to the soul as the coolness of this granite
prison is to the body.
Diamond Cañon and the Grand Cañon may be visited on the day of arrival
at Farlee’s inn. Leaving the afternoon of the second day for the
return to Peach Spring, no visitor should fail to ascend Prospect
Point, which forms one of the banks of the river, in the morning.
It is an hour’s hard climb from the inn, but it repays the toil a
hundred-fold. From the summit one obtains several picturesque glimpses
of the yellow Colorado, afar down, where it seems a mere brook; and of
course the surrounding mountains do not appear in their true size and
grandeur until one sees them from this elevated point of view. These
mountains all have a curious family likeness. Their basis is always
formed by a striated, vertical layer, reddish or brown; then follows a
story or layer which slopes like a roof, suggesting human architectural
efforts, but on a scale of infinite grandeur; and above this are
several more distinct strata towering straight into the skies. It is
the constant sight of these superb and unique mountains, on the way
from Peach Spring, that partly prevents tourists from being as deeply
impressed as they would otherwise be at first sight of the Grand Cañon.
“They get their belly full before they reach the river,” as Mr. Farlee
forcibly remarked.
After leaving Peach Spring, east-bound tourists may, if they have
time, stop over at several places of interest which will claim a day
each,—cliff dwellings, San Francisco Mountains, Pueblo villages, Santa
Fé, etc. If they lack time, the car window still affords many pleasant
sights which charm, even after the Grand Cañon, including the Cañon
Diablo, two hundred and twenty-two feet deep, which the train bridges
in the midst of a plain. Beyond Albuquerque the evidence multiplies
that water is more abundant, and New Mexico has many picturesque and
healthful spots, with wooded hills and green meadows, which only
await the arrival of pioneers to be soon converted into populous and
flourishing districts. Small pine forests make their appearance, and
one readily understands why they are locally known as “parks,” so clear
are they of all underbrush and rubbish. In Kansas, bits of local color
present themselves in the shape of immense herds of cattle, the three
guardian angels of one of which (alias cowboys) race with the train
quite successfully for a short distance. But while all these incidents
and scenes are apt to be soon forgotten, the Grand Cañon remains
stereotyped in the memory, where fresh copies can always be produced
at will. “Great as is the fame of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado, the
half remains to be told,” as Captain Dutton remarks in his “Tertiary
History of the Grand Cañon,” the eighth chapter of which, “The Panorama
from Point Sublime,” is one of the most valuable essays on natural
æsthetics ever written, and should be read by all who make the Great
American Scenic Tour.
INDEX.
Abalone shells, 69.
Alaska, 231–247.
Anaheim, 36.
Astoria, 187.
Avalon, 69.
Banff, 267.
Berkeley, 123.
Berries, Oregon, 179.
Big Trees, 102.
Cable-cars, 108, 111.
Cactus, 37.
California, Preface, 1–154.
Camping, 31.
Canadian National Park, 268–276.
Canadian Pacific Railroad, 248–261.
Carson City, 142.
Cascade Range, 184.
Catalina Island, 45, 58–74.
Cattle-raising, 20.
Chinese in California, 80, 112–120;
in Oregon, 166–171, 186.
Chula Vista, 52.
Clatsop, 176.
Climate, in Southern California, Preface, 7, 25–31, 34, 49, 60, 78;
in San Francisco, 123, 127;
in Oregon, 161;
in Washington, 230.
Coal, in Washington, 221.
Columbia River, 182–202, 258, 266.
Coronado, 49.
Crater Lake, 156.
Dalles, the, 201.
Desert, 3, 80.
Devil’s Head Lake, 271.
Diamond Creek, 303.
Donner Lake, 128.
El Paso, 3.
Elsinore Lake, 47.
Eucalyptus, 9.
Farming, 19.
Ferns, 173, 178.
Fir-trees, 181, 237.
Fishing, Catalina Island, 71;
Tahoe Lake, 137;
Columbia River, salmon, 186;
Devil’s Head Lake, 272;
Yellowstone, 290.
Flowers, in California, 26, 48, 69, 78, 83, 106;
in Oregon, 179.
Foothills, 21.
Forest colors, 266;
fires, 219, 248.
Frazer River, 235.
Fruit, Southern California, 10;
Oregon, 160, 180.
Fullerton, 6.
Glacier Bay, 246;
Glacier House, 259.
Goats, wild, 67.
Grand Cañon, Colorado, 295–305;
Yellowstone, 291.
Grapes, 12.
Hood, Mt., 163, 184, 190, 200, 204–206.
Humming-birds, 64.
Ilwaco, 173.
Indians, Alaskan, 241;
relics, Catalina Islands, 69;
camp at Sisson’s, 153.
Irrigation, 22–25.
Japan Current, 61.
Japanese and Indians, 243.
Juneau, 241.
Klamath Lake, 156.
Laguna, 47.
Limes _versus_ Lemons, 54.
Livingston, 279.
Los Angeles, 2, 4–14, 16, 18.
Lumber in Washington, 220.
Mariposa Grove, 102.
Mariposa lily, 69.
Mexican border, 49.
Mexicans, 79.
Minnewonka Lake, 271.
Mojave Desert, 80.
Mountain forests, 261.
Muir Glacier, 245.
Mustard fields, 55, 58.
National City, 51.
Nevada, 140.
New Orleans, 2.
Oakland, 123.
Olympia, 225.
Olympic mountains, 226.
Opium dens, 116.
Orange, 40.
Oranges, 36–48.
Oregon, Preface, 85, 155–206.
Oregon mountains, 163.
Oregon snow-peaks, 162, 184, 204–206, 230.
Ostrich farm, 11.
Pacific Coast, mountainous character of, 108.
Pampas plumes, 13.
Pasadena, 279.
Peach Spring, 298.
Pelicans, 72.
Pepper-trees, 9.
Portland, 162–171, 184.
Port Townsend, 230.
Prohibition in California, 44.
Puget Sound, 217–230.
Quail, 13, 64.
Rabbit-hunting, 37.
Railroads, transcontinental, Preface, ix;
Southern Pacific, 1;
California Southern, 46;
California Central, 56;
Central Pacific, 127;
Oregon and California, 149;
Northern Pacific, 213, 218, 279;
Canadian Pacific, 248;
Atlantic and Pacific, 294.
Rain, 155.
Rainier, Mt., 210.
Rattlesnakes, 65.
Raymond, 81.
Rivers, 155, 183.
Riverside, 41.
Rocky Mountains, 264.
Rural cities of the future, 31.
St. Elias, Mt., 233.
St. Helens, Mt., 207.
Salem, Oregon, 165.
Salmon-canneries, 186.
Scenery, American, 205.
Selkirk Mountains, 259.
Shoalwater Bay, 173.
Snow-peaks, in Oregon and Washington, 203–216.
Tacoma, 162, 218–223.
Tacoma, Mt., 209–216, 223.
Tahoe Lake, 129–140.
Tia Juana, 52.
Trees, Big, 102.
Truckee, 128.
Vancouver, 249.
Vegetables in California, 10.
Victoria, 249.
Vine disease, 12.
Virginia City, 143.
Washington, 207–230.
Washington snow-peaks, 162, 184, 204–216, 230.
Water-falls, Yosemite, 89, 96, 98;
Columbia River, 194;
Yellowstone, 291.
Wawona, 82, 102.
Whitney, Mt., 150.
Willamette River, 155, 164.
Willamette Valley, 158.
Windmills, 7.
Wine, California, 12.
Winnipeg, 279.
Winter bathing in California, 60.
Yale, 254.
Yellowstone Lake, 289.
Yellowstone Park, 279–293.
Yosemite Valley, 80–107.
Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston.
Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs
and outside quotations.
The index was not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page
references.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected
after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and
consultation of external sources.
Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added, when a
predominant preference was found in the original book.
Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and
inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
Pg xv: ‘Fraser’ replaced with ‘Frazer’
8: ‘severals’ replaced with ‘several’
25: ‘Frenso’ replaced with ‘Fresno’
34: Added ‘a’ in ‘within a stone’s throw’
44: ‘household gods’ replaced with ‘household goods’
53: ‘statment’ replaced with ‘statement’
71: ‘rythmically’ replaced with ‘rhythmically’
90: ‘irridescent’ replaced with ‘iridescent’
110: ‘decending’ replaced with ‘descending’
120: ‘millionnaires’ replaced with ‘millionaires’
128: ‘precipitious’ replaced with ‘precipitous’
141: Removed duplicate ‘the’ in “post by the roadside.”
155: ‘Umqua’ replaced with ‘Umpqua’
158: ‘southward’ replaced with ‘northward’
173: ‘venders’ replaced with ‘vendors’
200: ‘hunded’ replaced with ‘hundred’
202: ‘Pailroad’ replaced with ‘Railroad’
226: ‘suprises’ replaced with ‘surprises’
254: ‘FRASER’ replaced with ‘FRAZER’
304: ‘Sante’ replaced with ‘Santa’.