August 13.--We are now ready to start on our way down the Great
Unknown. Our boats, tied to a common stake, are chafing each other, as
they are tossed by the fretful river. They ride high and buoyant, for
their loads are lighter than we could desire. We have but a month’s
rations remaining. The flour has been resifted through the mosquito
net sieve; the spoiled bacon has been dried, and the worst of it
boiled; the few pounds of dried apples have been spread in the sun,
and reshrunken to their normal bulk; the sugar has all melted, and
gone on its way down the river; but we have a large sack of coffee.
The lighting of the boats has this advantage: they will ride the waves
better, and we shall have but little to carry when we make a portage.
We are three-quarters of a mile in the depths of the earth, and the
great river shrinks into insignificance, as it dashes its angry waves
against the walls and cliffs, that rise to the world above; they are
but puny ripples, and we but pigmies, running up and down the sands, or
lost among the boulders.
We have an unknown distance yet to run; an unknown river yet to
explore. What falls there are, we know not; what rocks beset the
channel, we know not; what walls rise over the river, we know not. Ah,
well! we may conjecture many things. The men talk as cheerfully as
ever; jests are bandied about freely this morning; but to me the cheer
is somber and the jests are ghastly.
With some eagerness, and some anxiety, and some misgiving, we enter the
cañon below, and are carried along by the swift water through walls
which rise from its very edge. They have the same structure as we
noticed yesterday--tiers of irregular shelves below, and, above these,
steep slopes to the foot of marble cliffs. We run six miles in a little
more than half an hour, and emerge into a more open portion of the
cañon, where high hills and ledges of rock intervene between the river
and the distant walls. Just at the head of this open place the river
runs across a dike; that is, a fissure in the rocks, open to depths
below, has been filled with eruptive matter, and this, on cooling, was
harder than the rocks through which the crevice was made, and, when
these were washed away, the harder volcanic matter remained as a wall,
and the river has cut a gate-way through it several hundred feet high,
and as many wide. As it crosses the wall, there is a fall below, and a
bad rapid, filled with boulders of trap; so we stop to make a portage.
Then on we go, gliding by hills and ledges, with distant walls in view;
sweeping past sharp angles of rock; stopping at a few points to examine
rapids, which we find can be run, until we have made another five
miles, when we land for dinner.
Then we let down with lines, over a long rapid, and start again. Once
more the walls close in, and we find ourselves in a narrow gorge, the
water again filling the channel, and very swift. With great care,
and constant watchfulness, we proceed, making about four miles this
afternoon, and camp in a cave.
_August 14._--At daybreak we walk down the bank of the river, on a
little sandy beach, to take a view of a new feature in the cañon.
Heretofore, hard rocks have given us bad river; soft rocks, smooth
water; and a series of rocks harder than any we have experienced sets
in. The river enters the granite![7]
We can see but a little way into the granite gorge, but it looks
threatening.
After breakfast we enter on the waves. At the very introduction, it
inspires awe. The cañon is narrower than we have ever before seen it;
the water is swifter; there are but few broken rocks in the channel;
but the walls are set, on either side, with pinnacles and crags; and
sharp, angular buttresses, bristling with wind and wave polished
spires, extend far out into the river.
Ledges of rocks jut into the stream, their tops sometimes just below
the surface, sometimes rising few or many feet above; and island
ledges, and island pinnacles, and island towers break the swift course
of the stream into chutes, and eddies, and whirlpools. We soon reach a
place where a creek comes in from the left, and just below, the channel
is choked with boulders, which have washed down this lateral cañon and
formed a dam, over which there is a fall of thirty or forty feet; but
on the boulders we can get foothold, and we make a portage.
Three more such dams are found. Over one we make a portage; at the
other two we find chutes, through which we can run.
As we proceed, the granite rises higher, until nearly a thousand feet
of the lower part of the walls are composed of this rock.
About eleven o’clock we hear a great roar ahead, and approach it very
cautiously. The sound grows louder and louder as we run, and at last
we find ourselves above a long, broken fall, with ledges and pinnacles
of rock obstructing the river. There is a descent of, perhaps,
seventy-five or eighty feet in a third of a mile, and the rushing
waters break into great waves on the rocks, and lash themselves into
a mad, white foam. We can land just above, but there is no foot-hold
on either side by which we can make a portage. It is nearly a thousand
feet to the top of the granite, so it will be impossible to carry our
boats around, though we can climb to the summit up a side gulch, and,
passing along a mile or two, can descend to the river. This we find on
examination; but such a portage would be impracticable for us, and we
must run the rapid, or abandon the river. There is no hesitation. We
step into our boats, push off and away we go, first on smooth but swift
water, then we strike a glassy wave, and ride to its top, down again
into the trough, up again on a higher wave, and down and up on waves
higher and still higher, until we strike one just as it curls back, and
a breaker rolls over our little boat. Still, on we speed, shooting past
projecting rocks, till the little boat is caught in a whirlpool, and
spun around several times. At last we pull out again into the stream,
and now the other boats have passed us. The open compartment of the
_Emma Dean_ is filled with water, and every breaker rolls over us.
Hurled back from a rock, now on this side, now on that, we are carried
into an eddy, in which we struggle for a few minutes, and are then out
again, the breakers still rolling over us. Our boat is unmanageable,
but she cannot sink, and we drift down another hundred yards, through
breakers; how, we scarcely know. We find the other boats have turned
into an eddy at the foot of the fall, and are waiting to catch us as we
come, for the men have seen that our boat is swamped. They push out as
we come near, and pull us in against the wall. We bail our boat, and
on we go again.
The walls, now, are more than a mile in height--a vertical distance
difficult to appreciate. Stand on the south steps of the Treasury
building in Washington, and look down Pennsylvania Avenue to the
Capitol Park, and measure this distance overhead, and imagine cliffs to
extend to that altitude, and you will understand what I mean; or, stand
at Canal Street, in New York, and look up Broadway to Grace Church,
and you have about the distance; or, stand at Lake Street bridge, in
Chicago, and look down to the Central Depot, and you have it again.
A thousand feet of this is up through granite crags, then steep slopes
and perpendicular cliffs rise, one above another, to the summit. The
gorge is black and narrow below, red and gray and flaring above, with
crags and angular projections on the walls, which, cut in many places
by side cañons, seem to be a vast wilderness of rocks. Down in these
grand, gloomy depths we glide, ever listening, for the mad waters keep
up their roar; ever watching, ever peering ahead, for the narrow cañon
is winding, and the river is closed in so that we can see but a few
hundred yards, and what there may be below we know not; but we listen
for falls, and watch for rocks, or stop now and then, in the bay of
a recess, to admire the gigantic scenery. And ever, as we go, there
is some new pinnacle or tower, some crag or peak, some distant view
of the upper plateau, some strange shaped rock, or some deep, narrow
side cañon. Then we come to another broken fall, which appears more
difficult than the one we ran this morning.
A small creek comes in on the right, and the first fall of the water
is over boulders, which have been carried down by this lateral stream.
We land at its mouth, and stop for an hour or two to examine the fall.
It seems possible to let down with lines, at least a part of the way,
from point to point, along the right hand wall. So we make a portage
over the first rocks, and find footing on some boulders below. Then we
let down one of the boats to the end of her line, when she reaches
a corner of the projecting rock, to which one of the men clings, and
steadies her, while I examine an eddy below. I think we can pass the
other boats down by us, and catch them in the eddy. This is soon done
and the men in the boats in the eddy pull us to their side. On the
shore of this little eddy there is about two feet of gravel beach
above the water. Standing on this beach, some of the men take the line
of the little boat and let it drift down against another projecting
angle. Here is a little shelf, on which a man from my boat climbs, and
a shorter line is passed to him, and he fastens the boat to the side of
the cliff. Then the second one is let down, bringing the line of the
third. When the second boat is tied up, the two men standing on the
beach above spring into the last boat, which is pulled up alongside
of ours. Then we let down the boats, for twenty-five or thirty yards,
by walking along the shelf, landing them again in the mouth of a side
cañon. Just below this there is another pile of boulders, over which
we make another portage. From the foot of these rocks we can climb to
another shelf, forty or fifty feet above the water.
On this beach we camp for the night. We find a few sticks, which have
lodged in the rocks. It is raining hard, and we have no shelter, but
kindle a fire and have our supper. We sit on the rocks all night,
wrapped in our ponchos, getting what sleep we can.
_August 15._--This morning we find we can let down for three or four
hundred yards, and it is managed in this way: We pass along the wall,
by climbing from projecting point to point, sometimes near the water’s
edge, at other places fifty or sixty feet above, and hold the boat
with a line, while two men remain aboard, and prevent her from being
dashed against the rocks, and keep the line from getting caught on
the wall. In two hours we have brought them all down, as far as it is
possible, in this way. A few yards below, the river strikes with great
violence against a projecting rock, and our boats are pulled up in a
little bay above. We must now manage to pull out of this, and clear
the point below. The little boat is held by the bow obliquely up the
stream. We jump in, and pull out only a few strokes, and sweep clear of
the dangerous rock. The other boats follow in the same manner, and the
rapid is passed.
It is not easy to describe the labor of such navigation. We must
prevent the waves from dashing the boats against the cliffs. Sometimes,
where the river is swift, we must put a bight of rope about a rock, to
prevent her being snatched from us by a wave; but where the plunge is
too great, or the chute too swift, we must let her leap, and catch her
below, or the undertow will drag her under the falling water, and she
sinks. Where we wish to run her out a little way from shore, through a
channel between rocks, we first throw in little sticks of drift wood,
and watch their course, to see where we must steer, so that she will
pass the channel in safety. And so we hold, and let go, and pull, and
lift, and ward, among rocks, around rocks, and over rocks.
And now we go on through this solemn, mysterious way. The river is very
deep, the cañon very narrow, and still obstructed, so that there is no
steady flow of the stream; but the waters wheel, and roll, and boil,
and we are scarcely able to determine where we can go. Now, the boat
is carried to the right, perhaps close to the wall; again, she is shot
into the stream, and perhaps is dragged over to the other side, where,
caught in a whirlpool, she spins about. We can neither land nor run
as we please. The boats are entirely unmanageable; no order in their
running can be preserved; now one, now another, is ahead, each crew
laboring for its own preservation. In such a place we come to another
rapid. Two of the boats run it perforce. One succeeds in landing, but
there is no foot-hold by which to make a portage, and she is pushed
out again into the stream. The next minute a great reflex wave fills
the open compartment; she is water-logged, and drifts unmanageable.
Breaker after breaker rolls over her, and one capsizes her. The men
are thrown out; but they cling to the boat, and she drifts down some
distance, alongside of us, and we are able to catch her. She is soon
bailed out, and the men are aboard once more; but the oars are lost,
so a pair from the _Emma Dean_ is spared. Then for two miles we find
smooth water.
Clouds are playing in the cañon to-day. Sometimes they roll down in
great masses, filling the gorge with gloom; sometimes they hang above,
from wall to wall, and cover the cañon with a roof of impending storm;
and we can peer long distances up and down this cañon corridor, with
its cloud roof overhead, its walls of black granite, and its river
bright with the sheen of broken waters. Then, a gust of wind sweeps
down a side gulch, and, making a rift in the clouds, reveals the blue
heavens, and a stream of sunlight pours in. Then, the clouds drift away
into the distance, and hang around crags, and peaks, and pinnacles,
and towers, and walls, and cover them with a mantle, that lifts from
time to time, and sets them all in sharp relief. Then, baby clouds
creep out of side cañons, glide around points, and creep back again,
into more distant gorges. Then, clouds, set in strata, across the
cañon, with intervening vista views, to cliffs and rocks beyond. The
clouds are children of the heavens, and when they play among the rocks,
they lift them to the region above.
It rains! Rapidly little rills are formed above, and these soon grow
into brooks, and the brooks grow into creeks, and tumble over the walls
in innumerable cascades, adding their wild music to the roar of the
river. When the rain ceases, the rills, brooks, and creeks run dry. The
waters that fall, during a rain, on these steep rocks, are gathered at
once into the river; they could scarcely be poured in more suddenly, if
some vast spout ran from the clouds to the stream itself. When a storm
bursts over the cañon, a side gulch is dangerous, for a sudden flood
may come, and the inpouring waters will raise the river, so as to hide
the rocks before your eyes.
Early in the afternoon, we discover a stream, entering from the north,
a clear, beautiful creek, coming down through a gorgeous red cañon.
We land, and camp on a sand beach, above its mouth, under a great,
overspreading tree, with willow shaped leaves.
_August 16._--We must dry our rations again to-day, and make oars.
The Colorado is never a clear stream, but for the past three or four
days it has been raining much of the time, and the floods, which are
poured over the walls, have brought down great quantities of mud,
making it exceedingly turbid now. The little affluent, which we have
discovered here, is a clear, beautiful creek, or river, as it would be
termed in this western country, where streams are not abundant. We have
named one stream, away above, in honor of the great chief of the “Bad
Angels,” and, as this is in beautiful contrast to that, we conclude to
name it “Bright Angel.”
Early in the morning, the whole party starts up to explore the Bright
Angel River, with the special purpose of seeking timber, from which to
make oars. A couple of miles above, we find a large pine log, which
has been floated down from the plateau, probably from an altitude of
more than six thousand feet, but not many miles back. On its way, it
must have passed over many cataracts and falls, for it bears scars in
evidence of the rough usage which it has received. The men roll it on
skids, and the work of sawing oars is commenced.
This stream heads away back, under a line of abrupt cliffs, that
terminates the plateau, and tumbles down more than four thousand feet
in the first mile or two of its course; then runs through a deep,
narrow cañon, until it reaches the river.
Late in the afternoon I return, and go up a little gulch, just above
this creek, about two hundred yards from camp, and discover the ruins
of two or three old houses, which were originally of stone, laid in
mortar. Only the foundations are left, but irregular blocks, of which
the houses were constructed, lie scattered about. In one room I find an
old mealing stone, deeply worn, as if it had been much used. A great
deal of pottery is strewn around, and old trails, which in some places
are deeply worn into the rocks, are seen.
It is ever a source of wonder to us why these ancient people sought
such inaccessible places for their homes. They were, doubtless, an
agricultural race, but there are no lands here, of any considerable
extent, that they could have cultivated. To the west of Oraiby, one
of the towns in the “Province of Tusayan,” in Northern Arizona, the
inhabitants have actually built little terraces along the face of
the cliff, where a spring gushes out, and thus made their sites for
gardens. It is possible that the ancient inhabitants of this place made
their agricultural lands in the same way. But why should they seek
such spots? Surely, the country was not so crowded with population as
to demand the utilization of so barren a region. The only solution
of the problem suggested is this: We know that, for a century or two
after the settlement of Mexico, many expeditions were sent into the
country now comprised in Arizona and New Mexico, for the purpose of
bringing the town building people under the dominion of the Spanish
government. Many of their villages were destroyed, and the inhabitants
fled to regions at that time unknown; and there are traditions, among
the people who inhabit the _pueblos_ that still remain, that the cañons
were these unknown lands. Maybe these buildings were erected at that
time; sure it is that they have a much more modern appearance than the
ruins scattered over Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico.
Those old Spanish conquerors had a monstrous greed for gold, and a
wonderful lust for saving souls. Treasures they must have; if not on
earth, why, then, in heaven; and when they failed to find heathen
temples, bedecked with silver, they propitiated Heaven by seizing
the heathen themselves. There is yet extant a copy of a record, made
by a heathen artist, to express his conception of the demands of the
conquerors. In one part of the picture we have a lake, and near by
stands a priest pouring water on the head of a native. On the other
side, a poor Indian has a cord about his throat. Lines run from these
two groups, to a central figure, a man with beard, and full Spanish
panoply. The interpretation of the picture writing is this: “Be
baptized, as this saved heathen; or be hanged, as that damned heathen.”
Doubtless, some of these people preferred a third alternative, and,
rather than be baptized or hanged, they chose to be imprisoned within
these cañon walls.
_August 17._--Our rations are still spoiling; the bacon is so badly
injured that we are compelled to throw it away. By an accident, this
morning, the saleratus is lost overboard. We have now only musty flour
sufficient for ten days, a few dried apples, but plenty of coffee. We
must make all haste possible. If we meet with difficulties, as we have
done in the cañon above, we may be compelled to give up the expedition,
and try to reach the Mormon settlements to the north. Our hopes are
that the worst places are passed, but our barometers are all so much
injured as to be useless, so we have lost our reckoning in altitude,
and know not how much descent the river has yet to make.
The stream is still wild and rapid, and rolls through a narrow channel.
We make but slow progress, often landing against a wall, and climbing
around some point, where we can see the river below. Although very
anxious to advance, we are determined to run with great caution, lest,
by another accident, we lose all our supplies. How precious that little
flour has become! We divide it among the boats, and carefully store it
away, so that it can be lost only by the loss of the boat itself.
We make ten miles and a half, and camp among the rocks, on the right.
We have had rain, from time to time, all day, and have been thoroughly
drenched and chilled; but between showers the sun shines with great
power, and the mercury in our thermometers stands at 115°, so that we
have rapid changes from great extremes, which are very disagreeable.
It is especially cold in the rain to-night. The little canvas we have
is rotten and useless; the rubber ponchos, with which we started from
Green River City, have all been lost; more than half the party is
without hats, and not one of us has an entire suit of clothes, and
we have not a blanket apiece. So we gather drift wood, and build a
fire; but after supper the rain, coming down in torrents, extinguishes
it, and we sit up all night, on the rocks, shivering, and are more
exhausted by the night’s discomfort than by the day’s toil.
_August 18._--The day is employed in making portages, and we advance
but two miles on our journey. Still it rains.
While the men are at work making portages, I climb up the granite
to its summit, and go away back over the rust colored sandstones and
greenish yellow shales, to the foot of the marble wall. I climb so high
that the men and boats are lost in the black depths below, and the
dashing river is a rippling brook; and still there is more cañon above
than below. All about me are interesting geological records. The book
is open, and I can read as I run. All about me are grand views, for the
clouds are playing again in the gorges. But somehow I think of the nine
days’ rations, and the bad river, and the lesson of the rocks, and the
glory of the scene is but half seen.
I push on to an angle, where I hope to get a view of the country
beyond, to see, if possible, what the prospect may be of our soon
running through this plateau, or, at least, of meeting with some
geological change that will let us out of the granite; but, arriving at
the point, I can see below only a labyrinth of deep gorges.
_August 19._--Rain again this morning. Still we are in our granite
prison, and the time is occupied until noon in making a long, bad
portage.
After dinner, in running a rapid, the pioneer boat is upset by a wave.
We are some distance in advance of the larger boats, the river is rough
and swift, and we are unable to land, but cling to the boat, and are
carried down stream, over another rapid. The men in the boats above see
our trouble, but they are caught in whirlpools, and are spinning about
in eddies, and it seems a long time before they come to our relief.
At last they do come; our boat is turned right side up, bailed out;
the oars, which fortunately have floated along in company with us, are
gathered up, and on we go, without even landing.
Soon after the accident the clouds break away, and we have sunshine
again.
Soon we find a little beach, with just room enough to land. Here we
camp, but there is no wood. Across the river, and a little way above,
we see some drift wood lodged in the rocks. So we bring two boat loads
over, build a huge fire, and spread everything to dry. It is the first
cheerful night we have had for a week; a warm, drying fire in the midst
of the camp, and a few bright stars in our patch of heavens overhead.
_August 20._--The characteristics of the cañon change this morning.
The river is broader, the walls more sloping, and composed of black
slates, that stand on edge. These nearly vertical slates are washed out
in places--that is, the softer beds are washed out between the harder,
which are left standing. In this way, curious little alcoves are
formed, in which are quiet bays of water, but on a much smaller scale
than the great bays and buttresses of Marble Cañon.
The river is still rapid, and we stop to let down with lines several
times, but make greater progress as we run ten miles. We camp on the
right bank. Here, on a terrace of trap, we discover another group of
ruins. There was evidently quite a village on this rock. Again we find
mealing stones, and much broken pottery, and up in a little natural
shelf in the rock, back of the ruins, we find a globular basket, that
would hold perhaps a third of a bushel. It is badly broken, and, as I
attempt to take it up, it falls to pieces. There are many beautiful
flint chips, as if this had been the home of an old arrow maker.
_August 21._--We start early this morning, cheered by the prospect
of a fine day, and encouraged, also, by the good run made yesterday.
A quarter of a mile below camp the river turns abruptly to the left,
and between camp and that point is very swift, running down in a long,
broken chute, and piling up against the foot of the cliff, where it
turns to the left. We try to pull across, so as to go down on the
other side, but the waters are swift, and it seems impossible for us
to escape the rock below; but, in pulling across, the bow of the boat
is turned to the farther shore, so that we are swept broadside down,
and are prevented, by the rebounding waters, from striking against the
wall. There we toss about for a few seconds in these billows, and are
carried past the danger. Below, the river turns again to the right,
the cañon is very narrow, and we see in advance but a short distance.
The water, too, is very swift, and there is no landing place. From
around this curve there comes a mad roar, and down we are carried,
with a dizzying velocity, to the head of another rapid. On either
side, high over our heads, there are overhanging granite walls, and
the sharp bends cut off our view, so that a few minutes will carry us
into unknown waters. Away we go, on one long, winding chute. I stand on
deck, supporting myself with a strap, fastened on either side to the
gunwale, and the boat glides rapidly, where the water is smooth, or,
striking a wave, she leaps and bounds like a thing of life, and we have
a wild, exhilarating ride for ten miles, which we make in less than an
hour. The excitement is so great that we forget the danger, until we
hear the roar of the great fall below; then we back on our oars, and
are carried slowly toward its head, and succeed in landing just above,
and find that we have to make another portage. At this we are engaged
until some time after dinner.
Just here we run out of the granite!
Ten miles in less than half a day, and limestone walls below. Good
cheer returns; we forget the storms, and the gloom, and cloud covered
cañons, and the black granite, and the raging river, and push our boats
from shore in great glee.
Though we are out of the granite, the river is still swift, and we
wheel about a point again to the right, and turn, so as to head back
in the direction from which we came, and see the granite again, with
its narrow gorge and black crags; but we meet with no more great falls,
or rapids. Still, we run cautiously, and stop, from time to time,
to examine some places which look bad. Yet, we make ten miles this
afternoon; twenty miles, in all, to-day.
_August 22._--We come to rapids again, this morning, and are occupied
several hours in passing them, letting the boats down, from rock to
rock, with lines, for nearly half a mile, and then have to make a
long portage. While the men are engaged in this, I climb the wall on
the northeast, to a height of about two thousand five hundred feet,
where I can obtain a good view of a long stretch of cañon below. Its
course is to the southwest. The walls seem to rise very abruptly, for
two thousand five hundred or three thousand feet, and then there is a
gently sloping terrace, on each side, for two or three miles, and again
we find cliffs, one thousand five hundred or two thousand feet high.
From the brink of these the plateau stretches back to the north and
south, for a long distance. Away down the cañon, on the right wall,
I can see a group of mountains, some of which appear to stand on the
brink of the cañon. The effect of the terrace is to give the appearance
of a narrow winding valley, with high walls on either side, and a deep,
dark, meandering gorge down its middle. It is impossible, from this
point of view, to determine whether we have granite at the bottom, or
not; but, from geological considerations, I conclude that we shall have
marble walls below.
After my return to the boats, we run another mile, and camp for the
night.
We have made but little over seven miles to-day, and a part of our
flour has been soaked in the river again.
_August 23._--Our way to-day is again through marble walls. Now and
then we pass, for a short distance, through patches of granite, like
hills thrust up into the limestone. At one of these places we have to
make another portage, and, taking advantage of the delay, I go up a
little stream, to the north, wading it all the way, sometimes having to
plunge in to my neck; in other places being compelled to swim across
little basins that have been excavated at the foot of the falls. Along
its course are many cascades and springs gushing out from the rocks on
either side. Sometimes a cottonwood tree grows over the water. I come
to one beautiful fall, of more than a hundred and fifty feet, and
climb around it to the right, on the broken rocks. Still going up, I
find the cañon narrowing very much, being but fifteen or twenty feet
wide; yet the walls rise on either side many hundreds of feet, perhaps
thousands; I can hardly tell.
In some places the stream has not excavated its channel down vertically
through the rocks, but has cut obliquely, so that one wall overhangs
the other. In other places it is cut vertically above and obliquely
below, or obliquely above and vertically below, so that it is
impossible to see out overhead. But I can go no farther. The time which
I estimated it would take to make the portage has almost expired, and
I start back on a round trot, wading in the creek where I must, and
plunging through basins, and find the men waiting for me, and away we
go on the river.
Just after dinner we pass a stream on the right, which leaps into
the Colorado by a direct fall of more than a hundred feet, forming a
beautiful cascade. There is a bed of very hard rock above, thirty or
forty feet in thickness, and much softer beds below. The hard beds
above project many yards beyond the softer, which are washed out,
forming a deep cave behind the fall, and the stream pours through a
narrow crevice above into a deep pool below. Around on the rocks, in
the cave like chamber, are set beautiful ferns, with delicate fronds
and enameled stalks. The little frondlets have their points turned
down, to form spore cases. It has very much the appearance of the
Maiden’s hair fern, but is much larger. This delicate foliage covers
the rocks all about the fountain, and gives the chamber great beauty.
But we have little time to spend in admiration, so on we go.
We make fine progress this afternoon, carried along by a swift river,
and shoot over the rapids, finding no serious obstructions.
The cañon walls, for two thousand five hundred or three thousand feet,
are very regular, rising almost perpendicularly, but here and there set
with narrow steps, and occasionally we can see away above the broad
terrace, to distant cliffs.
We camp to-night in a marble cave, and find, on looking at our
reckoning, we have run twenty-two miles.
_August 24._--The cañon is wider to-day. The walls rise to a vertical
height of nearly three thousand feet. In many places the river runs
under a cliff, in great curves, forming amphitheaters, half dome shaped.
Though the river is rapid, we meet with no serious obstructions, and
run twenty miles. It is curious how anxious we are to make up our
reckoning every time we stop, now that our diet is confined to plenty
of coffee, very little spoiled flour, and very few dried apples. It has
come to be a race for a dinner. Still, we make such fine progress, all
hands are in good cheer, but not a moment of daylight is lost.
_August 25._--We make twelve miles this morning, when we come to
monuments of lava, standing in the river; low rocks, mostly, but some
of them shafts more than a hundred feet high. Going on down, three
or four miles, we find them increasing in number. Great quantities of
cooled lava and many cinder cones are seen on either side; and then we
come to an abrupt cataract. Just over the fall, on the right wall, a
cinder cone, or extinct volcano, with a well defined crater, stands on
the very brink of the cañon. This, doubtless, is the one we saw two or
three days ago. From this volcano vast floods of lava have been poured
down into the river, and a stream of the molten rock has run up the
cañon, three or four miles, and down, we know not how far. Just where
it poured over the cañon wall is the fall. The whole north side, as
far as we can see, is lined with the black basalt, and high up on the
opposite wall are patches of the same material, resting on the benches,
and filling old alcoves and caves, giving to the wall a spotted
appearance.
The rocks are broken in two, along a line which here crosses the river,
and the beds, which we have seen coming down the cañon for the last
thirty miles, have dropped 800 feet, on the lower side of the line,
forming what geologists call a fault. The volcanic cone stands directly
over the fissure thus formed. On the side of the river opposite,
mammoth springs burst out of this crevice, one or two hundred feet
above the river, pouring in a stream quite equal in volume to the
Colorado Chiquito.
This stream seems to be loaded with carbonate of lime, and the water,
evaporating, leaves an incrustation on the rocks; and this process has
been continued for a long time, for extensive deposits are noticed, in
which are basins, with bubbling springs. The water is salty.
We have to make a portage here, which is completed in about three
hours, and on we go.
We have no difficulty as we float along, and I am able to observe
the wonderful phenomena connected with this flood of lava. The cañon
was doubtless filled to a height of twelve or fifteen hundred feet,
perhaps by more than one flood. This would dam the water back; and in
cutting through this great lava bed, a new channel has been formed,
sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other. The cooled lava, being
of firmer texture than the rocks of which the walls are composed,
remains in some places; in others a narrow channel has been cut,
leaving a line of basalt on either side. It is possible that the lava
cooled faster on the sides against the walls, and that the center
ran out; but of this we can only conjecture. There are other places,
where almost the whole of the lava is gone, patches of it only being
seen where it has caught on the walls. As we float down, we can see
that it ran out into side cañons. In some places this basalt has a
fine, columnar structure, often in concentric prisms, and masses of
these concentric columns have coalesced. In some places, when the flow
occurred, the cañon was probably at about the same depth as it is now,
for we can see where the basalt has rolled out on the sands, and, what
seems curious to me, the sands are not melted or metamorphosed to any
appreciable extent. In places the bed of the river is of sandstone or
limestone, in other places of lava, showing that it has all been cut
out again where the sandstones and limestones appear; but there is a
little yet left where the bed is of lava.
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!
Thirty-five miles to-day. Hurrah!
_August 26._--The cañon walls are steadily becoming higher as we
advance. They are still bold, and nearly vertical up to the terrace.
We still see evidence of the eruption discovered yesterday, but the
thickness of the basalt is decreasing, as we go down the stream; yet
it has been reinforced at points by streams that have come down from
volcanoes standing on the terrace above, but which we cannot see from
the river below.
Since we left the Colorado Chiquito, we have seen no evidences that the
tribe of Indians inhabiting the plateaus on either side ever come down
to the river; but about eleven o’clock to-day we discover an Indian
garden, at the foot of the wall on the right, just where a little
stream, with a narrow flood plain, comes down through a side cañon.
Along the valley, the Indians have planted corn, using the water which
burst out in springs at the foot of the cliff, for irrigation. The corn
is looking quite well, but is not sufficiently advanced to give us
roasting ears; but there are some nice, green squashes. We carry ten or
a dozen of these on board our boats, and hurriedly leave, not willing
to be caught in the robbery, yet excusing ourselves by pleading our
great want. We run down a short distance, to where we feel certain no
Indians can follow; and what a kettle of squash sauce we make! True,
we have no salt with which to season it, but it makes a fine addition
to our unleavened bread and coffee. Never was fruit so sweet as these
stolen squashes.
After dinner we push on again, making fine time, finding many rapids,
but none so bad that we cannot run them with safety, and when we
stop, just at dusk, and foot up our reckoning, we find we have run
thirty-five miles again.
What a supper we make; unleavened bread, green squash sauce, and strong
coffee. We have been for a few days on half rations, but we have no
stint of roast squash.
A few days like this, and we shall be out of prison.
_August 27._--This morning the river takes a more southerly direction.
The dip of the rocks is to the north, and we are rapidly running into
lower formations. Unless our course changes, we shall very soon run
again into the granite. This gives us some anxiety. Now and then the
river turns to the west, and excites hopes that are soon destroyed by
another turn to the south. About nine o’clock we come to the dreaded
rock. It is with no little misgiving that we see the river enter these
black, hard walls. At its very entrance we have to make a portage; then
we have to let down with lines past some ugly rocks. Then we run a mile
or two farther, and then the rapids below can be seen.
About eleven o’clock we come to a place in the river where it seems
much worse than any we have yet met in all its course. A little creek
comes down from the left. We land first on the right, and clamber up
over the granite pinnacles for a mile or two, but can see no way by
which we can let down, and to run it would be sure destruction. After
dinner we cross to examine it on the left. High above the river we can
walk along on the top of the granite, which is broken off at the edge,
and set with crags and pinnacles, so that it is very difficult to get a
view of the river at all. In my eagerness to reach a point where I can
see the roaring fall below, I go too far on the wall, and can neither
advance nor retreat. I stand with one foot on a little projecting
rock, and cling with my hand fixed in a little crevice. Finding I am
caught here, suspended 400 feet above the river, into which I should
fall if my footing fails, I call for help. The men come, and pass me
a line, but I cannot let go of the rock long enough to take hold of
it.[8] Then they bring two or three of the largest oars. All this takes
time which seems very precious to me; but at last they arrive. The
blade of one of the oars is pushed into a little crevice in the rock
beyond me, in such a manner that they can hold me pressed against the
wall. Then another is fixed in such a way that I can step on it, and
thus I am extricated.
Still another hour is spent in examining the river from this side, but
no good view of it is obtained, so now we return to the side that was
first examined, and the afternoon is spent in clambering among the
crags and pinnacles, and carefully scanning the river again. We find
that the lateral streams have washed boulders into the river, so as to
form a dam, over which the water makes a broken fall of eighteen or
twenty feet; then there is a rapid, beset with rocks, for two or three
hundred yards, while, on the other side, points of the wall project
into the river. Then there is a second fall below; how great, we cannot
tell. Then there is a rapid, filled with huge rocks, for one or two
hundred yards. At the bottom of it, from the right wall, a great rock
projects quite half way across the river. It has a sloping surface
extending up stream, and the water, coming down with all the momentum
gained in the falls and rapids above, rolls up this inclined plane many
feet, and tumbles over to the left. I decide that it is possible to
let down over the first fall, then run near the right cliff to a point
just above the second, where we can pull out into a little chute, and,
having run over that in safety, we must pull with all our power across
the stream, to avoid the great rock below. On my return to the boat, I
announce to the men that we are to run it in the morning. Then we cross
the river, and go into camp for the night on some rocks, in the mouth
of the little cañon.
After supper Captain Howland asks to have a talk with me. We walk up
the little creek a short distance, and I soon find that his object is
to remonstrate against my determination to proceed. He thinks that we
had better abandon the river here. Talking with him, I learn that his
brother, William Dunn, and himself have determined to go no farther in
the boats. So we return to camp. Nothing is said to the other men.
For the last two days, our course has not been plotted. I sit down and
do this now, for the purpose of finding where we are by dead reckoning.
It is a clear night, and I take out the sextant to make observation for
latitude, and find that the astronomic determination agrees very nearly
with that of the plot--quite as closely as might be expected, from a
meridian observation on a planet. In a direct line, we must be about
forty-five miles from the mouth of the Rio Virgen. If we can reach that
point, we know that there are settlements up that river about twenty
miles. This forty-five miles, in a direct line, will probably be eighty
or ninety in the meandering line of the river. But then we know that
there is comparatively open country for many miles above the mouth of
the Virgen, which is our point of destination.
As soon as I determine all this, I spread my plot on the sand, and
wake Howland, who is sleeping down by the river, and show him where I
suppose we are, and where several Mormon settlements are situated.
We have another short talk about the morrow, and he lies down again;
but for me there is no sleep. All night long, I pace up and down a
little path, on a few yards of sand beach, along by the river. Is it
wise to go on? I go to the boats again, to look at our rations. I feel
satisfied that we can get over the danger immediately before us; what
there may be below I know not. From our outlook yesterday, on the
cliffs, the cañon seemed to make another great bend to the south, and
this, from our experience heretofore, means more and higher granite
walls. I am not sure that we can climb out of the cañon here, and, when
at the top of the wall, I know enough of the country to be certain that
it is a desert of rock and sand, between this and the nearest Mormon
town, which, on the most direct line, must be seventy-five miles away.
True, the late rains have been favorable to us, should we go out, for
the probabilities are that we shall find water still standing in holes,
and, at one time, I almost conclude to leave the river. But for years I
have been contemplating this trip. To leave the exploration unfinished,
to say that there is a part of the cañon which I cannot explore,
having already almost accomplished it, is more than I am willing to
acknowledge, and I determine to go on.
I wake my brother, and tell him of Howland’s determination, and he
promises to stay with me; then I call up Hawkins, the cook, and he
makes a like promise; then Sumner, and Bradley, and Hall, and they all
agree to go on.
_August 28._--At last daylight comes, and we have breakfast, without a
word being said about the future. The meal is as solemn as a funeral.
After breakfast, I ask the three men if they still think it best to
leave us. The elder Howland thinks it is, and Dunn agrees with him. The
younger Howland tries to persuade them to go on with the party, failing
in which, he decides to go with his brother.
Then we cross the river. The small boat is very much disabled, and
unseaworthy. With the loss of hands, consequent on the departure of the
three men, we shall not be able to run all of the boats, so I decide to
leave my _Emma Dean_.
Two rifles and a shotgun are given to the men who are going out. I ask
them to help themselves to the rations, and take what they think to
be a fair share. This they refuse to do, saying they have no fear but
that they can get something to eat; but Billy, the cook, has a pan of
biscuits prepared for dinner, and these he leaves on a rock.
Before starting, we take our barometers, fossils, the minerals, and
some ammunition from the boat, and leave them on the rocks. We are
going over this place as light as possible. The three men help us lift
our boats over a rock twenty-five or thirty feet high, and let them
down again over the first fall, and now we are all ready to start.
The last thing before leaving, I write a letter to my wife, and give
it to Howland. Sumner gives him his watch, directing that it be sent
to his sister, should he not be heard from again. The records of the
expedition have been kept in duplicate. One set of these is given to
Howland, and now we are ready. For the last time, they entreat us not
to go on, and tell us that it is madness to set out in this place; that
we can never get safely through it; and, further, that the river turns
again to the south into the granite, and a few miles of such rapids
and falls will exhaust our entire stock of rations, and then it will
be too late to climb out. Some tears are shed; it is rather a solemn
parting; each party thinks the other is taking the dangerous course.
My old boat left, I go on board of the _Maid of the Cañon_. The three
men climb a crag, that overhangs the river, to watch us off. The _Maid
of the Cañon_ pushes out. We glide rapidly along the foot of the wall,
just grazing one great rock, then pull out a little into the chute of
the second fall, and plunge over it. The open compartment is filled
when we strike the first wave below, but we cut through it, and then
the men pull with all their power toward the left wall, and swing clear
of the dangerous rock below all right. We are scarcely a minute in
running it, and find that, although it looked bad from above, we have
passed many places that were worse.
The other boat follows without more difficulty. We land at the first
practicable point below and fire our guns, as a signal to the men
above that we have come over in safety. Here we remain a couple of
hours, hoping that they will take the smaller boat and follow us. We
are behind a curve in the cañon, and cannot see up to where we left
them, and so we wait until their coming seems hopeless, and push on.[9]
And now we have a succession of rapids and falls until noon, all of
which we run in safety. Just after dinner we come to another bad place.
A little stream comes in from the left, and below there is a fall, and
still below another fall. Above, the river tumbles down, over and among
the rocks, in whirlpools and great waves, and the waters are lashed
into mad, white foam. We run along the left, above this, and soon see
that we cannot get down on this side, but it seems possible to let down
on the other. We pull up stream again, for two or three hundred yards,
and cross. Now there is a bed of basalt on this northern side of the
cañon, with a bold escarpment, that seems to be a hundred feet high.
We can climb it, and walk along its summit to a point where we are
just at the head of the fall. Here the basalt is broken down again, so
it seems to us, and I direct the men to take a line to the top of the
cliff, and let the boats down along the wall. One man remains in the
boat, to keep her clear of the rocks, and prevent her line from being
caught on the projecting angles. I climb the cliff, and pass along to
a point just over the fall, and descend by broken rocks, and find that
the break of the fall is above the break of the wall, so that we cannot
land; and that still below the river is very bad, and that there is no
possibility of a portage.
Without waiting further to examine and determine what shall be done,
I hasten back to the top of the cliff, to stop the boats from coming
down. When I arrive, I find the men have let one of them down to the
head of the fall. She is in swift water, and they are not able to pull
her back; nor are they able to go on with the line, as it is not long
enough to reach the higher part of the cliff, which is just before
them; so they take a bight around a crag. I send two men back for the
other line. The boat is in very swift water, and Bradley is standing in
the open compartment, holding out his oar to prevent her from striking
against the foot of the cliff. Now she shoots out into the stream, and
up as far as the line will permit, and then, wheeling, drives headlong
against the rock, then out and back again, now straining on the line,
now striking against the rock. As soon as the second line is brought,
we pass it down to him; but his attention is all taken up with his own
situation, and he does not see that we are passing the line to him. I
stand on a projecting rock, waving my hat to gain his attention, for my
voice is drowned by the roaring of the falls.
Just at this moment, I see him take his knife from its sheath, and step
forward to cut the line. He has evidently decided that it is better
to go over with the boat as it is, than to wait for her to be broken
to pieces. As he leans over, the boat sheers again into the stream,
the stern-post breaks away, and she is loose. With perfect composure
Bradley seizes the great scull oar, places it in the stern rowlock, and
pulls with all his power (and he is an athlete) to turn the bow of the
boat down stream, for he wishes to go bow down, rather than to drift
broadside on. One, two strokes he makes, and a third just as she goes
over, and the boat is fairly turned, and she goes down almost beyond
our sight, though we are more than a hundred feet above the river.
Then she comes up again, on a great wave, and down and up, then around
behind some great rocks, and is lost in the mad, white foam below. We
stand frozen with fear, for we see no boat. Bradley is gone, so it
seems. But now, away below, we see something coming out of the waves.
It is evidently a boat. A moment more, and we see Bradley standing on
deck, swinging his hat to show that he is all right. But he is in a
whirlpool. We have the stempost of his boat attached to the line. How
badly she may be disabled we know not.
I direct Sumner and Powell to pass along the cliff, and see if they can
reach him from below. Rhodes, Hall, and myself run to the other boat,
jump aboard, push out, and away we go over the falls. A wave rolls over
us, and our boat is unmanageable. Another great wave strikes us, the
boat rolls over, and tumbles and tosses, I know not how. All I know is
that Bradley is picking us up. We soon have all right again, and row to
the cliff, and wait until Sumner and Powell can come. After a difficult
climb they reach us. We run two or three miles farther, and turn again
to the northwest, continuing until night, when we have run out of the
granite once more.
_August 29._--We start very early this morning. The river still
continues swift, but we have no serious difficulty, and at twelve
o’clock emerge from the Grand Cañon of the Colorado.
We are in a valley now, and low mountains are seen in the distance,
coming to the river below. We recognize this as the Grand Wash.
A few years ago, a party of Mormons set out from St. George, Utah,
taking with them a boat, and came down to the mouth of the Grand Wash,
where they divided, a portion of the party crossing the river to
explore the San Francisco Mountains. Three men--Hamblin, Miller, and
Crosby--taking the boat, went on down the river to Callville, landing a
few miles below the mouth of the Rio Virgen. We have their manuscript
journal with us, and so the stream is comparatively well known.
To-night we camp on the left bank, in a _mesquite_ thicket.
The relief from danger, and the joy of success, are great. When he
who has been chained by wounds to a hospital cot, until his canvas
tent seems like a dungeon cell, until the groans of those who lie
about, tortured with probe and knife, are piled up, a weight of horror
on his ears that he cannot throw off, cannot forget, and until the
stench of festering wounds and anæsthetic drugs has filled the air
with its loathsome burthen, at last goes out into the open field,
what a world he sees! How beautiful the sky; how bright the sunshine;
what “floods of delirious music” pour from the throats of birds; how
sweet the fragrance of earth, and tree, and blossom! The first hour of
convalescent freedom seems rich recompense for all--pain, gloom, terror.
Something like this are the feelings we experience to-night. Ever
before us has been an unknown danger, heavier than immediate peril.
Every waking hour passed in the Grand Cañon has been one of toil. We
have watched with deep solicitude the steady disappearance of our scant
supply of rations, and from time to time have seen the river snatch a
portion of the little left, while we were ahungered. And danger and
toil were endured in those gloomy depths, where oft-times the clouds
hid the sky by day, and but a narrow zone of stars could be seen at
night. Only during the few hours of deep sleep, consequent on hard
labor, has the roar of the waters been hushed. Now the danger is
over; now the toil has ceased; now the gloom has disappeared; now the
firmament is bounded only by the horizon; and what a vast expanse of
constellations can be seen!
The river rolls by us in silent majesty; the quiet of the camp is
sweet; our joy is almost ecstasy. We sit till long after midnight,
talking of the Grand Cañon, talking of home, but chiefly talking of
the three men who left us. Are they wandering in those depths, unable
to find a way out? are they searching over the desert lands above for
water? or are they nearing the settlements?
_August 30._--We run through two or three short, low cañons to-day,
and on emerging from one, we discover a band of Indians in the valley
below. They see us, and scamper away in most eager haste, to hide among
the rocks. Although we land, and call for them to return, not an Indian
can be seen.
Two or three miles farther down, in turning a short bend in the river,
we come upon another camp. So near are we before they can see us that I
can shout to them, and, being able to speak a little of their language,
I tell them we are friends; but they all flee to the rocks, except a
man, a woman, and two children. We land, and talk with them. They are
without lodges, but have built little shelters of boughs, under which
they wallow in the sand. The man is dressed in a hat; the woman in
a string of beads only. At first they are evidently much terrified;
but when I talk to them in their own language, and tell them we are
friends, and inquire after people in the Mormon towns, they are soon
reassured, and beg for tobacco. Of this precious article we have
none to spare. Sumner looks around in the boat for something to give
them, and finds a little piece of colored soap, which they receive
as a valuable present, rather as a thing of beauty than as a useful
commodity, however. They are either unwilling or unable to tell us
anything about the Indians or white people, and so we push off, for we
must lose no time.
We camp at noon under the right bank. And now, as we push out, we are
in great expectancy, for we hope every minute to discover the mouth of
the Rio Virgen.
Soon one of the men exclaims: “Yonder’s an Indian in the river.”
Looking for a few minutes, we certainly do see two or three persons.
The men bend to their oars, and pull toward them. Approaching, we see
that there are three white men and an Indian hauling a seine, and then
we discover that it is just at the mouth of the long sought river.
As we come near, the men seem far less surprised to see us than we
do to see them. They evidently know who we are, and, on talking with
them, they tell us that we have been reported lost long ago, and that
some weeks before, a messenger had been sent from Salt Lake City, with
instructions for them to watch for any fragments or relics of our party
that might drift down the stream.
Our new found friends, Mr. Asa and his two sons, tell us that they are
pioneers of a town that is to be built on the bank.
Eighteen or twenty miles up the valley of the Rio Virgen there are two
Mormon towns, St. Joseph and St. Thomas. To-night we dispatch an Indian
to the last mentioned place, to bring any letters that may be there for
us.
Our arrival here is very opportune. When we look over our store of
supplies, we find about ten pounds of flour, fifteen pounds of dried
apples, but seventy or eighty pounds of coffee.
_August 31._--This afternoon the Indian returns with a letter,
informing us that Bishop Leithhead, of St. Thomas, and two or three
other Mormons are coming down with a wagon, bringing us supplies. They
arrive about sundown. Mr. Asa treats us with great kindness, to the
extent of his ability; but Bishop Leithhead brings in his wagon two
or three dozen melons, and many other little luxuries, and we are
comfortable once more.
_September 1._--This morning Sumner, Bradley, Hawkins, and Hall, taking
on a small supply of rations, start down the Colorado with the boats.
It is their intention to go to Fort Mojave, and perhaps from there
overland to Los Angeles.
Captain Powell and myself return with Bishop Leithhead to St. Thomas.
From St. Thomas we go to Salt Lake City.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Geologists would call these rocks metamorphic crystalline schists,
with dikes and beds of granite, but we will use the popular name for
the whole series--granite.
[8] It should be remembered that Major Powell had only one arm. (_Ed._)
[9] For the miserable fate of these men see forward under date of
Sept. 19, 1870. (_Ed._)