The Yampa enters the Green from the east. At a point opposite its
mouth, the Green runs to the south, at the foot of a rock, about seven
hundred feet high and a mile long, and then turns sharply around it to
the right, and runs back in a northerly course, parallel to its former
direction, for nearly another mile, thus having the opposite sides of
a long, narrow rock for its bank. The tongue of rock so formed is a
peninsular precipice, with a mural escarpment along its whole course on
the east, but broken down at places on the west.
On the east side of the river, opposite the rock, and below the Yampa,
there is a little park, just large enough for a farm, already fenced
with high walls of gray homogeneous sandstone. There are three river
entrances to this park: one down the Yampa; one below, by coming up
the Green; and another down the Green. There is also a land entrance
down a lateral cañon. Elsewhere the park is inaccessible. Through
this land-entrance by the side cañon there is a trail made by Indian
hunters, who come down here in certain seasons to kill mountain sheep.
Great hollow domes are seen in the eastern side of the rock, against
which the Green sweeps; willows border the river; clumps of box-elder
are seen; and a few cottonwoods stand at the lower end. Standing
opposite the rock, our words are repeated with startling clearness,
but in a soft, mellow tone, that transforms them into magical music.
Scarcely can you believe it is the echo of your own voice. In some
places two or three echoes come back; in other places they repeat
themselves, passing back and forth across the river between this rock
and the eastern wall.
To hear these repeated echoes well you must shout. Some of the party
aver that ten or twelve repetitions can be heard. To me, they seem to
rapidly diminish and merge by multiplicity, like telegraph poles on an
outstretched plain. I have observed the same phenomenon once before in
the cliffs near Long’s Peak, and am pleased to meet with it again.
During the afternoon, Bradley and I climb some cliffs to the north.
Mountain sheep are seen above us, and they stand out on the rocks, and
eye us intently, not seeming to move. Their color is much like that
of the gray sandstone beneath them, and, immovable as they are, they
appear like carved forms. Now a fine ram beats the rock with his front
foot, and, wheeling around, they all bound away together, leaping over
rocks and chasms, and climbing walls where no man can follow, and this
with an ease and gracefulness most wonderful. At night we return to
our camp, under the box-elders, by the river side. Here we are to spend
two or three days, making a series of astronomic observations for
latitude and longitude.
_June 18._--We have named the long peninsular rock on the other side
Echo Rock. Desiring to climb it, Bradley and I take the little boat and
pull up stream as far as possible, for it cannot be climbed directly
opposite. We land on a talus of rocks at the upper end, to reach a
place where it seems practicable to make the ascent; but we must go
still farther up the river. So we scramble along, until we reach a
place where the river sweeps against the wall. Here we find a shelf,
along which we can pass, and now are ready for the climb.
We start up a gulch; then pass to the left, on a bench, along the wall;
then up again, over broken rocks; then we reach more benches, along
which we walk, until we find more broken rocks and crevices, by which
we climb still up, until we have ascended six or eight hundred feet;
then we are met by a sheer precipice.
Looking about, we find a place where it seems possible to climb. I go
ahead; Bradley hands the barometer to me, and follows. So we proceed,
stage by stage, until we are nearly to the summit. Here, by making a
spring, I gain a foothold in a little crevice, and grasp an angle of
the rock overhead. I find I can get up no farther, and cannot step
back, for I dare not let go with my hand, and cannot reach foot-hold
below without.[4] I call to Bradley for help. He finds a way by which
he can get to the top of the rock over my head, but cannot reach me.
Then he looks around for some stick or limb of a tree, but finds none.
Then he suggests that he had better help me with the barometer case;
but I fear I cannot hold on to it. The moment is critical. Standing on
my toes, my muscles begin to tremble. It is sixty or eighty feet to the
foot of the precipice. If I lose my hold I shall fall to the bottom,
and then perhaps roll over the bench, and tumble still farther down the
cliff. At this instant it occurs to Bradley to take off his drawers,
which he does, and swings them down to me. I hug close to the rock, let
go with my hand, seize the dangling legs, and, with his assistance, I
am enabled to gain the top.
Then we walk out on a peninsular rock, make the necessary observations
for determining its altitude above camp, and return, finding an easy
way down.
_June 19._--To-day, Howland, Bradley, and I take the _Emma Dean_, and
start up the Yampa River. The stream is much swollen, the current
swift, and we are able to make but slow progress against it. The cañon
in this part of the course of the Yampa is cut through light gray
sandstone. The river is very winding, and the swifter water is usually
found on the outside of the curve, sweeping against vertical cliffs,
often a thousand feet high. In the center of these curves, in many
places, the rock above overhangs the river. On the opposite side, the
walls are broken, craggy, and sloping, and occasionally side cañons
enter. When we have rowed until we are quite tired we stop, and take
advantage of one of these broken places to climb out of the cañon. When
above, we can look up the Yampa for a distance of several miles.
From the summit of the immediate walls of the cañon the rocks rise
gently back for a distance of a mile or two, having the appearance of a
valley, with an irregular, rounded sandstone floor, and in the center
of the valley a deep gorge, which is the cañon. The rim of this valley
on the north is from two thousand five hundred to three thousand feet
above the river; on the south, it is not so high. A number of peaks
stand on this northern rim, the highest of which has received the name
Mount Dawes.
Late in the afternoon we descend to our boat, and return to camp in
Echo Park, gliding down in twenty minutes on the rapid river a distance
of four or five miles, which was only made up stream by several hours’
hard rowing in the morning.
_June 20._--This morning two of the men take me up the Yampa for a
short distance, and I go out to climb. Having reached the top of the
cañon, I walk over long stretches of naked sandstone, crossing gulches
now and then, and by noon reach the summit of Mount Dawes. From this
point I can look away to the north, and see in the dim distance the
Sweetwater and Wind River Mountains, more than a hundred miles away.
To the northwest, the Wasatch Mountains are in view and peaks of
the Uinta. To the east, I can see the western slopes of the Rocky
Mountains, more than a hundred and fifty miles distant.
The air is singularly clear to-day; mountains and buttes stand in sharp
outline, valleys stretch out in the perspective, and I can look down
into the deep cañon gorges and see gleaming waters.
Descending, I cross a ridge near the brink of the Cañon of Lodore,
the highest point of which is nearly as high as the last mentioned
mountain.
Late in the afternoon I stand on this elevated point, and discover a
monument that has evidently been built by human hands. A few plants are
growing in the joints between the rocks, and all are lichened over to
a greater or less extent, showing evidences that the pile was built a
long time ago. This line of peaks, the eastern extension of the Uinta
Mountains, has received the name of Sierra Escalante, in honor of a
Spanish priest, who traveled in this region of country nearly a century
ago; and, perchance, the reverend father built this monument.
Now I return to the river and discharge my gun, as a signal for the
boat to come and take me down to camp. While we have been in the park,
the men have succeeded in catching quite a number of fish, and we have
an abundant supply. This is quite an addition to our _cuisine_.
_June 21._--We float around the long rock, and enter another cañon. The
walls are high and vertical; the cañon is narrow; and the river fills
the whole space below, so that there is no landing-place at the foot of
the cliff. The Green is greatly increased by the Yampa, and we now have
a much larger river. All this volume of water, confined, as it is, in
a narrow channel, and rushing with great velocity, is set eddying and
spinning in whirlpools by projecting rocks and short curves, and the
waters waltz their way through the cañon, making their own rippling,
rushing, roaring music. The cañon is much narrower than any we have
seen. With difficulty we manage our boats. They spin about from side
to side, and we know not where we are going, and find it impossible
to keep them headed down the stream. At first, this causes us great
alarm, but we soon find there is but little danger, and that there is a
general movement of progression down the river, to which this whirling
is but an adjunct; and it is the merry mood of the river to dance
through this deep, dark gorge; and right gaily do we join in the sport.
Soon our revel is interrupted by a cataract; its roaring command is
heeded by all our power at the oars, and we pull against the whirling
current. The _Emma Dean_ is brought up against a cliff, about fifty
feet above the brink of the fall. By vigorously plying the oars on
the side opposite the wall, as if to pull up stream, we can hold her
against the rock. The boats behind are signaled to land where they can.
The _Maid of the Cañon_ is pulled to the left wall, and, by constant
rowing, they can hold her also. The _Sister_ is run into an alcove on
the right, where an eddy is in a dance, and in this she joins. Now my
little boat is held against the wall only by the utmost exertion, and
it is impossible to make headway against the current. On examination, I
find a horizontal crevice in the rock, about ten feet above the water,
and a boat’s length below us, so we let her down to that point. One of
the men clambers into the crevice, in which he can just crawl; we toss
him the line, which he makes fast in the rocks, and now our boat is
tied up. Then I follow into the crevice, and we crawl along a distance
of fifty feet, or more, up stream, and find a broken place, where we
can climb about fifty feet higher. Here we stand on a shelf, that
passes along down stream to a point above the falls, where it is broken
down, and a pile of rocks, over which we can descend to the river, is
lying against the foot of the cliff.
It has been mentioned that one of the boats is on the other side. I
signal for the men to pull her up alongside of the wall, but it cannot
be done; then to cross. This they do, gaining the wall on our side just
above where the _Emma Dean_ is tied.
The third boat is out of sight, whirling in the eddy of a recess.
Looking about, I find another horizontal crevice, along which I crawl
to a point just over the water, where this boat is lying, and, calling
loud and long, I finally succeed in making the crew understand that
I want them to bring the boat down, hugging the wall. This they
accomplish, by taking advantage of every crevice and knob on the face
of the cliff, so that we have the three boats together at a point a
few yards above the falls. Now, by passing a line up on the shelf,
the boats can be let down to the broken rocks below. This we do, and,
making a short portage, our troubles here are over.
Below the falls, the cañon is wider, and there is more or less space
between the river and the walls; but the stream, though wide, is rapid,
and rolls at a fearful rate among the rocks. We proceed with great
caution, and run the large boats altogether by signal.
At night we camp at the mouth of a small creek, which affords us a
good supper of trout. In camp, to-night, we discuss the propriety of
several different names for this cañon. At the falls, encountered at
noon, its characteristics change suddenly. Above, it is very narrow,
and the walls are almost vertical; below, the cañon is much wider, and
more flaring; and, high up on the sides, crags, pinnacles, and towers
are seen. A number of wild, narrow side cañons enter, and the walls
are much broken. After many suggestions, our choice rests between two
names, Whirlpool Cañon and Craggy Cañon, neither of which is strictly
appropriate for both parts of it; but we leave the discussion at this
point, with the understanding that it is best, before finally deciding
on a name, to wait until we see what the cañon is below.
_June 22._--Still making short portages and letting down with lines.
While we are waiting for dinner to-day, I climb a point that gives me a
good view of the river for two or three miles below, and I think we can
make a long run. After dinner, we start; the large boats are to follow
in fifteen minutes, and look out for the signal to land. Into the
middle of the stream we row, and down the rapid river we glide, only
making strokes enough with the oars to guide the boat. What a headlong
ride it is! shooting past rocks and islands! I am soon filled with
exhilaration only experienced before in riding a fleet horse over the
outstretched prairie. One, two, three, four miles we go, rearing and
plunging with the waves, until we wheel to the right into a beautiful
park, and land on an island, where we go into camp.
An hour or two before sunset, I cross to the mainland, and climb a
point of rocks where I can overlook the park and its surroundings. On
the east it is bounded by a high mountain ridge. A semicircle of naked
hills bounds it on the north, west, and south. The broad, deep river
meanders through the park, interrupted by many wooded islands; so I
name it Island Park, and decide to call the cañon above Whirlpool Cañon.
_June 23._--We remain in camp to-day to repair our boats, which have
had hard knocks, and are leaking. Two of the men go out with the
barometer to climb the cliff at the foot of Whirlpool Cañon and measure
the walls; another goes on the mountain to hunt; and Bradley and I
spend the day among the rocks, studying an interesting geological fold
and collecting fossils. Late in the afternoon, the hunter returns,
and brings with him a fine, fat deer, so we give his name to the
mountain--Mount Hawkins. Just before night we move camp to the lower
end of the park, floating down the river about four miles.
_June 24._--Bradley and I start early to climb the mountain ridge to
the east; find its summit to be nearly three thousand feet above camp,
and it has required some labor to scale it; but on its top, what a
view! There is a long spur running out from the Uinta Mountains toward
the south, and the river runs lengthwise through it. Coming down Lodore
and Whirlpool Cañons, we cut through the southern slope of the Uinta
Mountains; and the lower end of this latter cañon runs into the spur,
but, instead of splitting it the whole length, the river wheels to
the right at the foot of Whirlpool Cañon, in a great curve to the
northwest, through Island Park. At the lower end of the park, the river
turns again to the southeast, and cuts into the mountain to its center,
and then makes a detour to the southwest, splitting the mountain ridge
for a distance of six miles nearly to its foot, and then turns out of
it to the left. All this we can see where we stand on the summit of
Mount Hawkins, and so we name the gorge below Split Mountain Cañon.
We are standing three thousand feet above its waters, which are
troubled with billows, and white with foam. Its walls are set with
crags and peaks, and buttressed towers, and overhanging domes. Turning
to the right, the park is below us, with its island groves reflected
by the deep, quiet waters. Rich meadows stretch out on either hand,
to the verge of a sloping plain, that comes down from the distant
mountains. These plains are of almost naked rock, in strange contrast
to the meadows; blue and lilac colored rocks, buff and pink, vermilion
and brown, and all these colors clear and bright. A dozen little
creeks, dry the greater part of the year, run down through the half
circle of exposed formations, radiating from the island-center to the
rim of the basin. Each creek has its system of side streams, and each
side stream has its system of laterals, and, again, these are divided,
so that this outstretched slope of rock is elaborately embossed. Beds
of different colored formations run in parallel bands on either side.
The perspective, modified by the undulations, gives the bands a waved
appearance, and the high colors gleam in the midday sun with the luster
of satin. We are tempted to call this Rainbow Park. Away beyond these
beds are the Uinta and Wasatch Mountains, with their pine forests and
snow fields and naked peaks. Now we turn to the right, and look up
Whirlpool Cañon, a deep gorge, with a river in the bottom--a gloomy
chasm, where mad waves roar; but, at this distance and altitude, the
river is but a rippling brook, and the chasm a narrow cleft. The top
of the mountain on which we stand is a broad, grassy table, and a herd
of deer is feeding in the distance. Walking over to the southeast, we
look down into the valley of White River, and beyond that see the far
distant Rocky Mountains, in mellow, perspective haze, through which
snow fields shine.
_June 25._--This morning, we enter Split Mountain Cañon, sailing in
through a broad, flaring, brilliant gateway. We run two or three rapids
after they have been carefully examined. Then we have a series of six
or eight, over which we are compelled to pass by letting the boats down
with lines. This occupies the entire day, and we camp at night at the
mouth of a great cave.
The cave is at the foot of one of these rapids, and the waves dash in
nearly to its very end. We can pass along a little shelf at the side
until we reach the back part. Swallows have built their nests in the
ceiling, and they wheel in, chattering and scolding at our intrusion;
but their clamor is almost drowned by the noise of the waters. Looking
out of the cave, we can see, far up the river, a line of crags standing
sentinel on either side, and Mount Hawkins in the distance.
_June 26._--The forenoon is spent in getting our large boats over the
rapids. This afternoon, we find three falls in close succession. We
carry our rations over the rocks, and let our boats shoot over the
falls, checking and bringing them to land with lines in the eddies
below. At three o’clock we are all aboard again. Down the river we are
carried by the swift waters at great speed, sheering around a rock now
and then with a timely stroke or two of the oars. At one point, the
river turns from left to right, in a direction at right angles to the
cañon, in a long chute, and strikes the right, where its waters are
heaped up in great billows, that tumble back in breakers. We glide
into the chute before we see the danger, and it is too late to stop.
Two or three hard strokes are given on the right, and we pause for an
instant, expecting to be dashed against the rock. The bow of the boat
leaps high on a great wave; the rebounding waters hurl us back, and the
peril is past. The next moment, the other boats are hurriedly signaled
to land on the left. Accomplishing this, the men walk along the shore,
holding the boats near the bank, and let them drift around. Starting
again, we soon debouch into a beautiful valley, and glide down its
length for ten miles, and camp under a grand old cottonwood. This is
evidently a frequent resort for Indians. Tent poles are lying about,
and the dead embers of late camp fires are seen. On the plains, to the
left, antelope are feeding. Now and then a wolf is seen, and after dark
they make the air resound with their howling.
_June 27._--Now our way is along a gently flowing river, beset with
many islands; groves are seen on either side, and natural meadows,
where herds of antelope are feeding. Here and there we have views of
the distant mountains on the right.
During the afternoon, we make a long detour to the west, and return
again, to a point not more than half a mile from where we started at
noon, and here we camp, for the night, under a high bluff.
_June 28._--To-day, the scenery on either side of the river is much
the same as that of yesterday, except that two or three lakes are
discovered, lying in the valley to the west. After dinner, we run but
a few minutes, when we discover the mouth of the Uinta, a river coming
in from the west. Up the valley of this stream, about forty miles, the
reservation of the Uinta Indians is situated. We propose to go there,
and see if we can replenish our mess kit, and, perhaps, send letters to
friends. We also desire to establish an astronomic station here; and
hence this will be our stopping place for several days.
Some years ago, Captain Berthoud surveyed a stage route from Salt Lake
City to Denver, and this is the place where he crossed the Green
River. His party was encamped here for some time, constructing a ferry
boat and opening a road.
A little above the mouth of the Uinta, on the west side of the Green,
there is a lake of several thousand acres. We carry our boat across the
divide between this and the river, have a row on its quiet waters, and
succeed in shooting several ducks.
_June 29._--A mile and three quarters from here is the junction of the
White River with the Green. The White has its source far to the east,
in the Rocky Mountains. This morning, I cross the Green, and go over
into the valley of the White, and extend my walk several miles along
its winding way, until, at last, I come in sight of some strangely
carved rocks, named by General Hughes, in his journal, “Goblin City.”
Our last winter’s camp was situated a hundred miles above the point
reached to-day. The course of the river, for much of the distance, is
through cañons; but, at some places, valleys are found. Excepting
these little valleys, the region is one of great desolation: arid,
almost treeless, bluffs, hills, ledges of rock, and drifting sands.
Along the course of the Green, however, from the foot of Split Mountain
Cañon to a point some distance below the mouth of the Uinta, there
are many groves of cottonwood, natural meadows, and rich lands. This
arable belt extends some distance up the White River, on the east, and
the Uinta, on the west, and the time must soon come when settlers will
penetrate this country, and make homes.
_June 30._--We have a row up the Uinta to-day, but are not able to make
much headway against the swift current, and hence conclude we must walk
all the way to the agency.
_July 1._--Two days have been employed in obtaining the local time,
taking observations for latitude and longitude, and making excursions
into the adjacent country. This morning, with two of the men, I start
for the Agency. It is a toilsome walk, twenty miles of the distance
being across a sand desert. Occasionally, we have to wade the river,
crossing it back and forth. Toward evening, we cross several beautiful
streams, which are tributaries of the Uinta, and we pass through pine
groves and meadows, arriving just at dusk at the Reservation. Captain
Dodds, the agent, is away, having gone to Salt Lake City, but his
assistants received us very kindly. It is rather pleasant to see a
house once more, and some evidences of civilization, even if it is on
an Indian reservation, several days’ ride from the nearest home of the
white man.
_July 2._--I go, this morning, to visit _Tsau′-wi-at_. This old chief
is but the wreck of a man, and no longer has influence. Looking at
him, you can scarcely realize that he is a man. His skin is shrunken,
wrinkled, and dry, and seems to cover no more than a form of bones.
He is said to be more than a hundred years old. I talk a little with
him, but his conversation is incoherent, though he seems to take pride
in showing me some medals, that must have been given him many years
ago. He has a pipe which, he says, he has used a long time. I offer to
exchange with him, and he seems to be glad to accept; so I add another
to my collection of pipes. His wife, “The Bishop,” as she is called, is
a very garrulous old woman; she exerts a great influence, and is much
revered. She is the only Indian woman I have known to occupy a place in
the council ring. She seems very much younger than her husband, and,
though wrinkled and ugly, is still vigorous. She has much to say to me
concerning the condition of the people, and seems very anxious that
they should learn to cultivate the soil, own farms, and live like white
men. After talking a couple of hours with these old people, I go to see
the farms. They are situated in a very beautiful district, where many
fine streams of water meander across alluvial plains and meadows. These
creeks have quite a fall, and it is very easy to take their waters out
above, and, with them, overflow the lands.
It will be remembered that irrigation is necessary, in this dry
climate, to successful farming. Quite a number of Indians have each
a patch of ground, of two or three acres, on which they are raising
wheat, potatoes, turnips, pumpkins, melons, and other vegetables. Most
of the crops are looking well, and it is rather surprising with what
pride they show us that they are able to cultivate crops like white
men. They are still occupying lodges, and refuse to build houses,
assigning as a reason that when any one dies in a lodge it is always
abandoned, and very often burned with all the effects of the deceased,
and when houses have been built for them they have been treated in
the same way. With their unclean habits, a fixed residence would
doubtless be no pleasant place. This beautiful valley has been the
home of a people of a higher grade of civilization than the present
Utes. Evidences of this are quite abundant; on our way here yesterday
we discovered, in many places along the trail, fragments of pottery;
and wandering about the little farms to-day, I find the foundations
of ancient houses, and mealing stones that were not used by nomadic
people, as they are too heavy to be transported by such tribes, and
are deeply worn. The Indians, seeing that I am interested in these
matters, take pains to show me several other places where these
evidences remain, and tell me that they know nothing about the people
who formerly dwelt here. They further tell me that up in the cañon the
rocks are covered with pictures.
_July 5._--The last two days have been spent in studying the language
of the Indians, and making collections of articles illustrating the
state of arts among them.
Frank Goodman informs me, this morning, that he has concluded not to go
on with the party, saying that he has seen danger enough. It will be
remembered that he was one of the crew on the _No Name_ when she was
wrecked. As our boats are rather heavily loaded, I am content that he
should leave, although he has been a faithful man.
We start early on our return to the boats, taking horses with us from
the reservation, and two Indians, who are to bring the animals back.
* * * * *
Whirlpool Cañon is fourteen and a quarter miles in length, the walls
varying from one thousand eight hundred to two thousand four hundred
feet in height. The course of the river through Island Park is nine
miles. Split Mountain Cañon is eight miles long. The highest crags on
its walls reach an altitude above the river of from two thousand five
hundred to two thousand seven hundred feet. In these cañons, cedars
only are found on the walls.
The distance by river from the foot of Split Mountain Cañon to the
mouth of the Uinta is sixty-seven miles. The valley through which it
runs is the home of many antelope, and we have adopted the Indian name,
_Won′sits Yu-av_--Antelope Valley.
FOOTNOTE:
[4] Major Powell had only one arm. (_Ed._)