You must not think of a mountain-range as a line of peaks standing on
a plain, but as a broad platform many miles wide, from which mountains
have been carved by the waters. You must conceive, too, that this
plateau is cut by gulches and cañons in many directions, and that
beautiful valleys are scattered about at different altitudes. The
first series of cañons we are about to explore constitutes a river
channel through such a range of mountains. The cañon is cut nearly
half-way through the range, then turns to the east, and is cut along
the central line, or axis, gradually crossing it to the south. Keeping
this direction for more than fifty miles, it then turns abruptly to a
southwest course, and goes diagonally through the southern slope of the
range.
This much we knew before entering, as we made a partial exploration of
the region last fall, climbing many of its peaks, and in a few places
reaching the brink of the cañon walls, and looking over the precipices,
many hundreds of feet high, to the water below.
Here and there the walls are broken by lateral cañons, the channels of
little streams entering the river; through two or three of these, we
found our way down to the Green in early winter, and walked along the
low water-beach at the foot of the cliffs for several miles. Where the
river has this general easterly direction, the western part only has
cut for itself a cañon, while the eastern has formed a broad valley,
called, in honor of an old-time trapper, Brown’s Park, and long known
as a favorite winter resort for mountain men and Indians.
_May 30._--This morning we are ready to enter the mysterious cañon, and
start with some anxiety. The old mountaineers tell us that it cannot
be run; the Indians say, “Water heap catch ’em,” but all are eager for
the trial, and off we go.
Entering Flaming Gorge, we quickly run through it on a swift current,
and emerge into a little park. Half a mile below, the river wheels
sharply to the left, and we turn into another cañon cut into the
mountain. We enter the narrow passage. On either side, the walls
rapidly increase in altitude. On the left are overhanging ledges and
cliffs five hundred--a thousand--fifteen hundred feet high.
On the right, the rocks are broken and ragged, and the water fills
the channel from cliff to cliff. Now the river turns abruptly around
a point to the right, and the waters plunge swiftly down among great
rocks; and here we have our first experience with cañon rapids. I stand
up on the deck of my boat to seek a way among the wave beaten rocks.
All untried as we are with such waters, the moments are filled with
intense anxiety. Soon our boats reach the swift current; a stroke or
two, now on this side, now on that, and we thread the narrow passage
with exhilarating velocity, mounting the high waves, whose foaming
crests dash over us, and plunging into the troughs, until we reach the
quiet water below; and then comes a feeling of great relief. Our first
rapid is run. Another mile, and we come into the valley again.
Let me explain this cañon. Where the river turns to the left above,
it takes a course directly into the mountain, penetrating to its very
heart, then wheels back upon itself, and runs out into the valley from
which it started only half a mile below the point at which it entered;
so the cañon is in the form of an elongated letter U, with the apex in
the center of the mountain. We name it Horseshoe Cañon.
Soon we leave the valley, and enter another short cañon, very narrow at
first, but widening below as the cañon walls increase in height. Here
we discover the mouth of a beautiful little creek, coming down through
its narrow water worn cleft. Just at its entrance there is a park of
two or three hundred acres, walled on every side by almost vertical
cliffs, hundreds of feet in altitude, with three gateways through the
walls--one up, another down the river, and a third passage through
which the creek comes in. The river is broad, deep, and quiet, and its
waters mirror towering rocks.
Kingfishers are playing about the streams, and so we adopt as names
Kingfisher Creek, Kingfisher Park, and Kingfisher Cañon. At night, we
camp at the foot of this cañon.
Our general course this day has been south, but here the river turns to
the east around a point which is rounded to the shape of a dome, and on
its sides little cells have been carved by the action of the water; and
in these pits, which cover the face of the dome, hundreds of swallows
have built their nests. As they flit about the cliffs, they look like
swarms of bees, giving to the whole the appearance of a colossal
beehive of the old time form, and so we name it Beehive Point.
The opposite wall is a vast amphitheater, rising in a succession of
terraces to a height of 1,200 or 1,500 feet. Each step is built of
red sandstone, with a face of naked, red rock, and a glacis clothed
with verdure. So the amphitheater seems banded red and green, and
the evening sun is playing with roseate flashes on the rocks, with
shimmering green on the cedars’ spray, and iridescent gleams on the
dancing waves. The landscape revels in the sunshine.
_May 31._--We start down another cañon, and reach rapids made dangerous
by high rocks lying in the channel; so we run ashore, and let our boats
down with lines. In the afternoon we come to more dangerous rapids,
and stop to examine them. I find we must do the same work again, but,
being on the wrong side of the river to obtain a foothold, must first
cross over--no very easy matter in such a current, with rapids and
rocks below. We take the pioneer boat _Emma Dean_ over, and unload her
on the bank; then she returns and takes another load. Running back and
forth, she soon has half our cargo over; then one of the larger boats
is manned and taken across, but carried down almost to the rocks in
spite of hard rowing. The other boats follow and make the landing, and
we go into camp for the night.
At the foot of the cliff on this side, there is a long slope covered
with pines; under these we make our beds, and soon after sunset are
seeking rest and sleep. The cliffs on either side are of red sandstone,
and stretch up toward the heavens 2,500 feet. On this side, the long,
pine clad slope is surmounted by perpendicular cliffs, with pines on
their summits. The wall on the other side is bare rock from the water’s
edge up 2,000 feet, then slopes back, giving footing to pines and
cedars.
As the twilight deepens, the rocks grow dark and somber; the
threatening roar of the water is loud and constant, and I lie awake
with thoughts of the morrow and the cañons to come, interrupted now and
then by characteristics of the scenery that attract my attention. And
here I make a discovery. On looking at the mountain directly in front,
the steepness of the slope is greatly exaggerated, while the distance
to its summit and its true altitude are correspondingly diminished. I
have heretofore found that to properly judge of the slope of a mountain
side, you must see it in profile. In coming down the river this
afternoon, I observed the slope of a particular part of the wall, and
made an estimate of its altitude. While at supper, I noticed the same
cliff from a position facing it, and it seemed steeper, but not half
as high. Now lying on my side and looking at it, the true proportions
appear. This seems a wonder, and I rise up to take a view of it
standing. It is the same cliff as at supper time. Lying down again, it
is the cliff as seen in profile, with a long slope and distant summit.
Musing on this, I forget “the morrow and the cañons to come.” I find a
way to estimate the altitude and slope of an inclination as I can judge
of distance along the horizon. The reason is simple. A reference to
the stereoscope will suggest it. The distance between the eyes forms a
base-line for optical triangulation.
_June 1._--To-day we have an exciting ride. The river rolls down the
cañon at a wonderful rate, and, with no rocks in the way, we make
almost railroad speed. Here and there the water rushes into a narrow
gorge; the rocks on the side roll it into the center in great waves,
and the boats go leaping and bounding over these like things of life.
They remind me of scenes witnessed in Middle Park; herds of startled
deer bounding through forests beset with fallen timber. I mention the
resemblance to some of the hunters, and so striking is it that it comes
to be a common expression, “See the black-tails jumping the logs.” At
times the waves break and roll over the boats, which necessitates much
bailing, and obliges us to stop occasionally for that purpose. At one
time, we run twelve miles an hour, stoppages included.
Last spring, I had a conversation with an old Indian named Pa′-ri-ats,
who told me about one of his tribe attempting to run this cañon. “The
rocks,” he said, holding his hands above his head, his arms vertical,
and looking between them to the heavens, “the rocks h-e-a-p, h-e-a-p
high; the water go h-oo-woogh, h-oo-woogh; water-pony (boat) h-e-a-p
buck; water catch ’em; no see ’em Injun any more! no see ’em squaw any
more! no see ’em pappoose any more!”
Those who have seen these wild Indian ponies rearing alternately before
and behind, or “bucking,” as it is called in the vernacular, will
appreciate his description.
At last we come to calm water, and a threatening roar is heard in the
distance. Slowly approaching the point whence the sound issues, we come
near to falls, and tie up just above them on the left. Here we will be
compelled to make a portage; so we unload the boats, and fasten a long
line to the bow, and another to the stern, of the smaller one, and
moor her close to the brink of the fall. Then the bow-line is taken
below, and made fast; the stern-line is held by five or six men, and
the boat let down as long as they can hold her against the rushing
waters; then, letting go one end of the line, it runs through the ring;
the boat leaps over the fall, and is caught by the lower rope.
Now we rest for the night.
_June 2._--This morning we make a trail among the rocks, transport the
cargoes to a point below the falls, let the remaining boats over, and
are ready to start before noon.
On a high rock by which the trail passes we find the inscription:
“Ashley 18-5.” The third figure is obscure--some of the party reading
it 1835, some 1855.[3]
James Baker, an old time mountaineer, once told me about a party of men
starting down the river, and Ashley was named as one. The story runs
that the boat was swamped, and some of the party drowned in one of the
cañons below. The word “Ashley” is a warning to us, and we resolve on
great caution.
Ashley Falls is the name we give to the cataract.
The river is very narrow; the right wall vertical for two or three
hundred feet, the left towering to a great height, with a vast pile of
broken rocks lying between the foot of the cliff and the water. Some
of the rocks broken down from the ledge above have tumbled into the
channel and caused this fall. One great cubical block, thirty or forty
feet high, stands in the middle of the stream, and the waters, parting
to either side, plunge down about twelve feet, and are broken again by
the smaller rocks into a rapid below. Immediately below the falls, the
water occupies the entire channel, there being no talus at the foot of
the cliffs.
We embark, and run down a short distance, where we find a landing-place
for dinner.
On the waves again all the afternoon. Near the lower end of this cañon,
to which we have given the name Red Cañon, is a little park, where
streams come down from distant mountain summits, and enter the river on
either side; and here we camp for the night under two stately pines.
_June 3._--This morning we spread our rations, clothes, &c., on the
ground to dry, and several of the party go out for a hunt. I take a
walk of five or six miles up to a pine grove park, its grassy carpet
bedecked with crimson, velvet flowers, set in groups on the stems of
pear shaped cactus plants; patches of painted cups are seen here and
there, with yellow blossoms protruding through scarlet bracts; little
blue-eyed flowers are peeping through the grass; and the air is filled
with fragrance from the white blossoms of a _Spiræa_. A mountain brook
runs through the midst, ponded below by beaver dams. It is a quiet
place for retirement from the raging waters of the cañon.
It will be remembered that the course of the river, from Flaming Gorge
to Beehive Point, is in a southerly direction, and at right angles to
the Uinta Mountains, and cuts into the range until it reaches a point
within five miles of the crest, where it turns to the east, and pursues
a course not quite parallel to the trend of the range, but crosses the
axis slowly in a direction a little south of east. Thus there is a
triangular tract between the river and the axis of the mountain, with
its acute angle extending eastward. I climb a mountain overlooking this
country. To the east, the peaks are not very high, and already most of
the snow has melted; but little patches lie here and there under the
lee of ledges of rock. To the west, the peaks grow higher and the snow
fields larger. Between the brink of the cañon and the foot of these
peaks, there is a high bench. A number of creeks have their sources in
the snow banks to the south, and run north into the cañon, tumbling
down from 3,000 to 5,000 feet in a distance of five or six miles. Along
their upper courses, they run through grassy valleys; but, as they
approach Red Cañon, they rapidly disappear under the general surface of
the country, and emerge into the cañon below in deep, dark gorges of
their own. Each of these short lateral cañons is marked by a succession
of cascades and a wild confusion of rocks and trees and fallen timber
and thick undergrowth.
The little valleys above are beautiful parks; between the parks are
stately pine forests, half hiding ledges of red sandstone. Mule-deer
and elk abound; grizzly bears, too, are abundant; wild cats,
wolverines, and mountain lions are here at home. The forest aisles are
filled with the music of birds, and the parks are decked with flowers.
Noisy brooks meander through them; ledges of moss-covered rocks are
seen; and gleaming in the distance are the snow fields, and the
mountain tops are away in the clouds.
_June 4._--We start early and run through to Brown’s Park. Half way
down the valley, a spur of a red mountain stretches across the river,
which cuts a cañon through it. Here the walls are comparatively low,
but vertical. A vast number of swallows have built their _adobe_ houses
on the face of the cliffs, on either side of the river. The waters are
deep and quiet, but the swallows are swift and noisy enough, sweeping
by in their curved paths through the air, or chattering from the rocks.
The young birds stretch their little heads on naked necks through the
doorways of their mud houses, clamoring for food. They are a noisy
people.
We call this Swallow Cañon.
Still down the river we glide, until an early hour in the afternoon,
when we go into camp under a giant cottonwood, standing on the right
bank, a little way back from the stream. The party had succeeded in
killing a fine lot of wild ducks, and during the afternoon a mess of
fish is taken.
_June 5._--With one of the men, I climb a mountain, off on the right.
A long spur, with broken ledges of rocks, puts down to the river;
and along its course, or up the “hog-back,” as it is called, I make
the ascent. Dunn, who is climbing to the same point, is coming up
the gulch. Two hours’ hard work has brought us to the summit. These
mountains are all verdure clad; pine and cedar forests are set on green
terraces; snow clad mountains are seen in the distance, to the west;
the plains of the upper Breen stretch out before us, to the north,
until they are lost in the blue heavens; but half of the river cleft
range intervenes, and the river itself is at our feet.
This half range, beyond the river, is composed of long ridges, nearly
parallel with the valley. On the farther ridge, to the north, four
creeks have their sources. These cut through the intervening ridges,
one of which is much higher than that on which they head, by cañon
gorges; then they run, with gentle curves, across the valley, their
banks set with willows, box-elders, and cottonwood groves.
To the east, we look up the valley of the Vermilion, through which
Frémont found his path on his way to the great parks of Colorado.
The reading of the barometer taken, we start down in company, and reach
camp tired and hungry, which does not abate one bit our enthusiasm, as
we tell of the day’s work, with its glory of landscape.
_June 6._--At daybreak, I am awakened by a chorus of birds. It seems
as if all the feathered songsters of the region have come to the old
tree. Several species of warblers, woodpeckers, and flickers above,
meadowlarks in the grass, and wild geese in the river. I recline on
my elbow, and watch a lark near by, and then awaken my bed fellow,
to listen to my Jenny Lind. A morning concert for me; none of your
“_matinées_.”
Our cook has been an ox-driver, or “bullwhacker,” on the plains, in one
of those long trains now no longer seen, and he hasn’t forgotten his
old ways. In the midst of the concert, his voice breaks in: “Roll out!
roll out! bulls in the corral! chain up the gaps! Roll out! roll out!
roll out!” And this is our breakfast bell.
To-day we pass through the park, and camp at the head of another cañon.
_June 7._--To-day, two or three of us climb to the summit of the cliff,
on the left, and find its altitude, above camp, to be 2,086 feet. The
rocks are split with fissures, deep and narrow, sometimes a hundred
feet, or more, to the bottom. Lofty pines find root in the fissures
that are filled with loose earth and decayed vegetation. On a rock
we find a pool of clear, cold water, caught from yesterday evening’s
shower. After a good drink, we walk out to the brink of the cañon,
and look down to the water below. I can do this now, but it has taken
several years of mountain climbing to cool my nerves, so that I can
sit, with my feet over the edge, and calmly look down a precipice 2,000
feet. And yet I cannot look on and see another do the same. I must
either bid him come away, or turn my head.
The cañon walls are buttressed on a grand scale, with deep alcoves
intervening; columned crags crown the cliffs, and the river is rolling
below.
When we return to camp, at noon, the sun shines in splendor on
vermilion walls, shaded into green and gray, where the rocks are
lichened over; the river fills the channel from wall to wall, and the
cañon opens, like a beautiful portal, to a region of glory.
This evening, as I write, the sun is going down, and the shadows are
settling in the cañon. The vermilion gleams and roseate hues, blending
with the green and gray tints, are slowly changing to somber brown
above, and black shadows are creeping over them below; and now it is a
dark portal to a region of gloom--the gateway through which we are to
enter on our voyage of exploration to-morrow. What shall we find?
The distance from Flaming Gorge to Beehive Point is nine and
two-thirds miles. Besides, passing through the gorge, the river runs
through Horseshoe and Kingfisher Cañons, separated by short valleys.
The highest point on the walls, at Flaming Gorge, is 1,300 feet above
the river. The east wall, at the apex of Horseshoe Cañon, is about
1,600 feet above the water’s edge, and, from this point, the walls
slope both to the head and foot of the cañon.
Kingfisher Cañon, starting at the water’s edge above, steadily
increases in altitude to 1,200 feet at the foot.
Red Cañon is twenty-five and two-thirds miles long, and the highest
walls are about 2,500 feet.
Brown’s Park is a valley, bounded on either side by a mountain range,
really an expansion of the cañon. The river, through the park, is
thirty-five and a half miles long, but passes through two short cañons,
on its way, where spurs, from the mountains on the south, are thrust
across its course.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] General Ashley, the fur trader, made his last journey into the Far
West before 1835. The man here mentioned must have been someone else,
of the same family name. (_Ed._)