Perhaps no river in the world has so remarkable a life-history as has the
Colorado. It is formed of two great streams, the Green and the Grand. Both
have their rise in the far-away mountains, in banks of virgin and purest
snow. Hence the waters of the Colorado at their source are pure and sweet.
Yet such is the vehement force of this river, such its haste to reach the
ocean, that it cuts down and carries with it millions of tons annually of
sand and silt, rock debris and dirt until, when it reaches the desert,
through which it flows as a lazy dragon, reddish-yellow, tawny, it is the
dirtiest stream in the world. For not only does it carry the sand of its
own grinding, as it passes through the hundred miles of canyon of its
waterway, but it accepts the sweepings of vast areas made by its
tributaries. Some of these extend through barren and desolate areas,--great
stretches of the most forsaken desert lands, where the rains occasionally
pour down with deluge-like force. Cloudbursts and floods are common; for
the whole country is high in altitude, with rising peaks, where electric
storms play and rage, and the clouds drop, with a sudden sweep, their whole
burden of water to the earth beneath. At other times, the waters are
allowed to pour down in torrential rains which quickly deluge the land, and
as there are no barriers to hinder or detain, they sweep down the
inhospitable slopes to the stream beds, carrying with them all the sand,
silt, rock debris, vegetable mould and animal matter that have accumulated
since the last storm. So that while at its source it is the purest river in
the world, at its mouth it is the dirtiest and most repulsive. The
Mississippi, with many more miles of length, the Nile, the Amazon, the
Yangste-Kiang, the Hoang-Ho, are all far cleaner at their mouths than is
this insatiable dragon of the Canyon.
Carrying Power of the River. This suggests another singularity in which it
doubtless reigns supreme. Probably no river in the world, of its length,
has anything like the carrying power of the Colorado within its waters.
Notice that I say "within its waters." It is useless for carrying anything
on its bosom. No ships use its waters for beneficent commerce. Its only
carrying power is in the amount of sand and other material it holds in
solution, and carries within itself.
Its Incredible Descent. For it is doubtful whether any river in the world
has so rapid a descent from towering mountain heights to its receiving
ocean, as has the Colorado. It falls over four thousand two hundred feet
from its source to its mouth, and in less than five hundred miles of its
distance it contains five hundred and twenty rapids, falls and cataracts. A
fall or a rapid or a cataract for every mile, and a few over for good
measure. Who can conceive the peril of journeying through such a river? And
until the facts were known, how hopeless to attempt to ascend such a river,
as did Alarcon, Ives and Wheeler!
Useless for Commerce. As already stated, it is the most useless of the
large rivers of the world as a carrier of ships of commerce. No boat,
carrying produce of field, mill or mart, has ever passed up or down its
course. No whitewinged schooner or other merchantman has enlivened its
course by proudly gliding on its bosom to waiting port, where cargoes are
discharged and received. No thrilling fleet of battleships ever has seen
its banks, or ever will, for it is useless, absolutely, irretrievably,
God-ordainedly useless for all purposes of commerce, traffic, or
communication.
Dangerous and Destructive. Read the accounts of Powell's trips down its
dangerous course; of Alarcon's struggles to ascend its headlong tides; of
Ives's and Wheeler's attempts to explore a portion of it; of Cardenas's
efforts even to reach its waters from one of its banks, and of the ruthless
manner in which it has destroyed the lives of those unfortunate enough to
come within its reach. Then you will see how absolutely useless a river it
is. In this regard the Colorado River is unique. Most rivers carry
beneficent life all along their journey. They distribute fructifying
waters, from their rise to their end in the sea. Thriving towns and
villages line their banks, all surrounded by a fertile farming country. But
not so the Colorado! It has cut its way through the rocks so fiercely that
it is buried a thousand, two thousand, three thousand and even five
thousand and more feet below the surrounding country. It and its
tributaries drain away even the water that falls in gentle showers, before
it has time to benefit the thirsty land. Only by the expensive construction
of cemented cisterns and occasional dams can the rancher, stockman and
miner of the region hoard for his scantest needs enough of this precious
fluid. Even the hotels that are placed upon its brink to afford
stopping-places for the curious travelers who wish to see this river and
its unique waterway are compelled to haul their trains of water-cars nearly
a hundred miles to supply themselves with the water which the Colorado
River drains from their very dooryards and empties in reckless neglect into
the Gulf of California.
Yields No Electrical Power. Other rivers throughout California and the West
are yielding millions of volts annually of electrical energy, for the
lighting and heating of cities, the turning of mill-wheels, and the
running of electric cars; but the Colorado, though possessed of a potential
energy greater than any ten or twenty of these rivers combined, so far has
refused to yield up a single volt. Again and again engineers have estimated
and suggested, but the great facts remain that it is so uncertain, so wild,
so impetuous, so sure to rise when unexpected, so sure to fall when relied
upon, that, as yet, no one has been found venturesome enough to try to tame
and harness its fierce energy.
Waters to be Diverted by a Dam. Yet in spite of these serious charges I
make against the Colorado, it is peculiar in that it is the most useful of
the large rivers of the world in another domain. The United States
Reclamation Service has spent millions of the people's money in making it
of use. At Laguna, a few miles above Yuma, it has built a huge dam larger
than any similar dam in the world--that diverts these once turbulent waters
into irrigating ditches to convey their life-giving power to thousands upon
thousands of acres of desert land. The Blythe Estate is doing the same
thing a hundred or more miles higher up, near Parker, on the Santa Fe, and
already towns and settlements are springing up on those desert wastes. The
California Development Company began this work, four miles below Yuma, in
1900, and in four years had converted that great sink of the Colorado
Desert into the richly fertile domain now known as the Imperial Valley,
where today are many growing towns.
Opportunities for Swimming. Though the current of the Colorado is so
strong, there are times and places where it affords one who is not
over-fastidious as to the color of the water, an opportunity for an
excellent swim. But care must be exercised. At the foot of Bass Trail,
there are two or three rocky recesses where one may go in and swim, within
the arms of the protecting rocks, without danger. It is not well to swim in
the earlier months of the year, when the water is excessively cold. Several
times in January and February I have been overcome with temptation, and
have jumped in "merely for the plunge." The sensation is one of being
skinned alive, and one plunge is all that one cares for. Yet on emerging
and dressing, how fine one feels after it. The great melting time of the
snows on the mountains is the end of May, June and early July. It grows
warmer in July, and from then on to December one may enjoy it. In September
and October it is generally deliciously warm, and I have gone in half a
dozen times a day. A good swimmer can cross the stream, if he does not lose
his head, for the current is powerful, and one is borne down far faster
than he imagines, and it is much further across than it seems to be.
Several times, when I have wanted to cross, and there was no boat, I have
swam across to the other side, wearing my shirt and trousers and carrying
my boots slung around my neck. But it is, hard work and scarcely worth the
risk.
An Exciting Swim. Last year at the foot of the Red Canyon Trail, I had two
most delightful swims--one on the night of the arrival of our party, the
other by starlight next morning. Though there is an ugly rapid at this
place, one may go up stream far enough to get away from danger, for a
half-moon-shaped mass of rock affords safe shelter, and deep enough water
for swimming. The night swim was so refreshing that I could not resist the
allurement to take another in the morning, before we left camp. The order
had been given for an early start, which meant breakfast at earliest dawn,
so that I had to go down to the river while the stars were yet shining. The
water was quite warm, and as soon as I felt myself in its soothing embrace
a half-dreamy mood came over me, and, throwing myself upon my back, I
yielded to it, quietly pushing myself, as I thought, against the stream,
but heading for the other side. Though conscious of the enjoyment of the
exercise, and the delicious sensation of the water around my body, my
thoughts ran away with me, and I suddenly awoke to myself and the full
significance of my surroundings by finding myself more than half-way across
the river, in the swiftest part of the current, which was rapidly carrying
me down to the rapids. For a few moments I was dreadfully alarmed. My heart
stood still, and the surprise of it almost paralysed me. I remember
distinctly my thoughts and reasoning. They were somewhat as follows: "The
current on the south side is far less strong than on this side. Therefore
it will be much easier to go back than to try to reach the north shore,
which seems to be and is so much the nearer. If, however, you can't make
it, what then? You'll go into the rapids. If you are dashed headlong or
sideways against any of the five hundred and one waiting rocks, that will
doubtless be the end of you; but there is a good chance that you may get
through without hitting anything. A minute, or two minutes at the most,
will see you through the rapids to calm current beyond. You can hold your
breath that length of time, so that the spray and wildly tossing waves of
the rapids, the froth and spume, will not get up your nose and choke you."
In the meantime, I had fixed my eye on an immense square block of rock,
that rested just above the dangerous rapids, and close to the southern
shore. I knew if I could reach the shore inside that rock I was safe, so
striking out vigorously, and aiming for a point far above it, I swam as
strongly as I knew how, making every stroke tell, refusing to be alarmed or
confused by the terrifying roar of the rapids, which now seemed but a step
away. I did not have to test my method of going through the rapids. I
reached the shore in safety, walked back to camp, had a good breakfast,
made all the more appetizing by my swim and the consequent danger, and in
half an hour the ride up the trail and my companions were absorbing all my
attention. To all of them, save one, this recital of my morning's adventure
will be new.
Dangerous Unless Known Well. That the river is more dangerous than most
people imagine, the bleaching bones of many a poor wretch who has been
drowned in its treacherous waters fully attest. More than one prospector,
cattleman, or even cattle and horse "rustler" (as in Arizona parlance a
cattle and horse-thief is known), with too great self-confidence, has
attempted to cross on a log, in a leaky skiff, or in a canvas boat, and ere
he was aware of his danger, the current had swept him out of reach of all
help. It is a river to know ere you risk yourself upon or in it.
Getting Animals across the River. Who could begin to recount the fun and
frolic, and at the same time the worry and vexation we have experienced in
taking horses, mules and burros across this surly river. We have crossed at
all times of the year, at high water and low, when the water was cold
enough to give one cramps merely to look at it, and when it was comfortably
warm. Sometimes we had no trouble; then we felt how smart we were, and it
made us happy; at other times the animals seemed to be "possessed."
Sometimes it is the horses that are afraid; at others it is the mules; and
sometimes the burros; generally all three together. The modus is to put
your strongest rower in the boat, and then a man with plenty of nerve in
the stern to handle the rope and the animal to which it is attached,--when
you get the latter into the water. As many persons as then can be assembled
get behind the animal to persuade it to enter the water. The boat is ready
to go as soon as the animal is "in," but yet it prefers to be "out."
Yellings, shoutings, pushings are of little or no avail, and the gentle
pleadings of the man with the rope are as effective as Mrs. Partington's
sweeping back of the Atlantic with a broom. Vigorous measures must be used,
so a concerted movement is projected. At a given signal the boat is to be
pushed off, the oarsman ply his oars with power, the man in the stern is to
pull with energy, and a man at each flank of the animal is to push, while
every other being is to do his or her part by a shout or a boost. One man
swings a riata to help scare the animal in, and the boat pulls out into the
current. We all stand and watch. What is the fool horse doing? Scared at
first of going into the water, he now is making desperate efforts to climb
into the boat. His rope is held as tightly as possible, but the beast swims
frantically from one side to the other, endeavoring to climb aboard. His
knees thump the boat, and his chin occasionally rests on the gunwale, but
active interference thrusts him back. In the meantime, the current is
taking the boat well down the river, but we are not alarmed, for we have a
good half-mile stretch, with convenient sandy places on the north side, on
which to land. Now the horse settles down to steady hard work, and at last,
catching sight of the tiny beach, he breaks away from the boat and strikes
out for himself, reaching shore before the rower.
Back they come for another. Now we try two burros. Firmly they brace
themselves, and refuse to be pushed into the tawny flood. Then they dodge
and run and tangle each other up with their neck ropes, patiently
strangling each other with desperate insistence. At length they are pushed
in, and off they go. After a good ducking, they come up with a snort and a
bounce, a look of martyr-like meekness in their eyes, as they settle down
to the inevitable. No animal on earth can teach man more than a burro in
this regard. He accepts what can't be helped, makes the best of it, and
gains happiness out of every patch of thistles and grass he can push his
nose into. So, as we look into the eyes of these burros, as they rapidly
"paw" the current, we can see a look of expectation and content which
plainly says "Cheer up, brother, this will soon be over, and on the north
side we'll get better feed than we've been having lately."
A mule's desperate plunges to escape generally aid us to get him into the
water, for he loses his balance and is easily pushed in. But his look of
dazed surprise is comical when, after such a plunge, in which he sinks
below his head, he arises, snorts, blows the water out of his nostrils, and
begins to look about him. The burro part of his nature, however, soon
settles him down, and he pulls out for the shore, glad to rejoin his
companions.
Once in a while an animal breaks loose, gets halfway across, becomes
confused, and not knowing which way to go, is carried down to the rapids
and dashed to death.