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CHAPTER V FROM ECHO
PARK TO THE MOUTH OF THE UINTA RIVER
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. 1
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
Escalanti, 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 canons 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.
Corning down Lodore and Whirlpool Canons, 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 Tsaú-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. ________________________ 1 Major
Powell had only one arm. (Ed.). |