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CHAPTER VI
FROM THE MOUTH OF THE UINTA RIVER TO THE JUNCTION JULY
6. — Start early
this morning. A short distance below
the mouth of the Uinta, we come to the head of a long island. Last
winter, a man named Johnson, a hunter and Indian trader, visited us at
our camp in White River Valley. This man has an Indian wife, and, having
no fixed home, usually travels with one of
the Ute bands. He informed me it was his intention to plant some corn,
potatoes, and other vegetables on this island in the spring, and, knowing that we would pass it, invited us to stop and
help ourselves, even if he should not be there; so we land and go out on
the island. Looking about, we soon discover his garden, but it is in a sad
condition, having received no care since
it was planted. It is yet too early in the
season for corn, but Hall suggests that potato tops are good greens,
and, anxious for some change from or salt
meat fare, we gather a quantity and take them aboard. At noon we stop and cook or greens for dinner; but soon,
one after another of the party is taken sick; nausea first, and then severe vomiting, and we tumble
around under the trees, groaning with pain,
and I feel a little alarmed, lest or
poisoning be severe. Emetics are administered to those who are willing
to take them, and about the middle of the afternoon we are all rid of the pain.
Jack Sumner records in his diary that “Potato tops are not good greens on the
sixth day of July.” 1 This evening we enter another cañon, almost imperceptibly,
as the walls rise very gently. July 7. — We find quiet water to-day, the river sweeping in great and beautiful curves, the cañon walls steadily
increasing in
altitude. The escarpment formed by the cut edges of the rock are often
vertical, sometimes
terraced, and in some places the treads of the terraces are sloping. In these quiet curves vast amphitheaters are
formed, now in vertical rocks, now in
steps. The salient point of rock within the
curve is usually
broken down in a steep slope, and we stop occasionally to climb up, at such a place, where, on looking down, we can
see the river sweeping the foot of the opposite cliff, in a great, easy curve,
with a perpendicular or
terraced wall rising from the water’s edge many hundreds of feet. One of these we find very symmetrical, and name
it Sumner’s
Amphitheater. The cliffs are rarely broken by the entrance of side cañons, and we sweep around curve after curve, with almost continuous walls, for
several miles. Late in the afternoon, we find the river much rougher, and come upon rapids, not dangerous, but still
demanding close attention. We camp at night on the right bank, having made to-day
twenty-six miles. July 8. — This morning, Bradley and I go out
to climb, and gain an altitude of more than two thousand feet above the river, but still do not reach the summit of
the wall. After dinner, we pass through a region of the wildest
desolation. The cañon is very tortuous, the river very rapid, and many lateral
cañons enter on either side. These usually have their branches, so that the
region is cut into a wilderness of gray and brown
cliffs. In several places, these lateral cañons are only separated from
each other by narrow walls, often hundreds
of feet high, but so narrow in
places that where softer rocks are fond below, they have crumbled away,
and left holes in the wall, forming passages from one cañon into another. These we often call natural
bridges; but they were
never intended to span streams. They had better, perhaps, be called side doors between cañon chambers. Piles of broken rock lie against these walls; crags and tower shaped peaks are
seen
everywhere; and away above them, long lines of broken cliffs, and above and beyond the cliffs are pine forests, of
which we obtain
Occasional glimpses, as we look up through
a vista of rocks. The walls are almost without
vegetation; a few dwarf bushes are seen
here and there, clinging to the rocks, and
cedars grow from the crevices — not
like the cedars of a land refreshed
with rains, great cones bedecked with
spray, but ugly clumps, like war clubs, beset with spines. We are minded to call this the Cañon of
Desolation. The wind annoys us much to-day. The water, rough by reason of the rapids, is made more so by head gales. Wherever a great face
of rock has a southern exposure, the rarified air rises, and the wind rushes in below, either up or down the cañon, or both, causing local
currents. Just at sunset, we run a bad rapid, and camp at its foot. July 9. — Our run to-day is through a cañon, with ragged, broken walls, many lateral gulches or
cañons entering on either side. The river is
rough, and occasionally it becomes
necessary to use lines in passing rocky
places. During the afternoon, we come
to a rather open cañon valley, stretching up toward the west, its
farther end lost in the mountains. From a
point to which we climb, we obtain a
good view of its course, until
its angular walls are lost in the ,vista. July 10. — Sumner,
who is a fine mechanist, is learning to
take observations for time with the
sextant. To-day, he remains in camp to practice. Howland and myself determine to climb out, and start up a
lateral cañon, taking a barometer
with us, for the purpose of measuring the thickness of the strata over
which we pass. The
readings of a barometer below are
recorded every half hour, and or observations
must be simultaneous. Where the beds,
which we desire to measure, are very
thick, we must climb with the utmost speed,
to reach their summits in time. Again,
where there are thinner beds, we wait
for the moment to arrive; and so, by hard
and easy stages, we make or way to the
top of the cañon wall, and reach the plateau above about two o’clock. Howland, who has his gun with him, sees deer feeding a mile or two back, and goes off for a hunt. I go to a peak, which seems to be the highest one in this region, about half a
mile distant, and climb, for the purpose
of tracing the topography of the adjacent
country. From this point, a fine view
is obtained. A long plateau stretches across the river, in an easterly
and westerly direction, the summit covered
by pine forests, with intervening elevated valleys and gulches. The
plateau itself is cut in two by the cañon. Other side cañons head away back from the river, and run down
into the Green. Besides these, deep and abrupt cañons are seen to head back on the plateau, and run north toward the Uinta and White Rivers. Still other cañons head in the
valleys, and run toward the south. The
elevation of the plateau being about eight
thousand feet above the level of the sea,
brings it into a region of moisture, as is well attested by the forests and grassy valleys. The plateau seems to rise gradually to the west, until it merges into the Wasatch Mountains. On these high table lands, elk and deer abound; and they are favorite hunting grounds for the Ute Indians. A little before sunset, Howland and I meet again at the head of the side
cañon, and down we
start. It is late, and we must make great haste, or be caught by the darkness; so we go, running where
we can; leaping over the ledges; letting each other down on the loose rocks, as long as we can see. When darkness comes, we are still some distance from camp, and a long, slow, anxious descent
we make, towards the gleaming camp fire. After supper, observations for latitude
are taken, and
only two or three hors for sleep
remain, before daylight. July 11. — A short distance below camp we run a rapid, and, in doing so, break
an oar, and then lose another, both belonging to the Emma Dean. So the pioneer boat has but two oars. We see nothing of which oars can be
made, so we conclude
to run on to some point, where it seems possible to climb out to the forests on the plateau, and there we
will procure suitable
timber from which to make new ones. We soon approach another rapid. Standing on deck, I think it can be run, and
on we go. Coming
nearer, I see that at the foot it has
a short turn to the left, where the waters
pile up against the cliff. Here we try to land, but quickly discover
that, being in
swift water, above the fall, we cannot reach shore, crippled, as we are, by
the loss of two oars; so the bow of the boat is turned down stream. We shoot by a big rock; a reflex wave rolls
over or little boat and fills her. I see the place
is dangerous, and quickly signal to the other boats to land where they
can. This is scarcely completed when another wave rolls or boat over, and I am
thrown some distance into the water. I soon
find that swimming is very easy, and I cannot sink. It is only necessary
to ply strokes sufficient to keep my head
out of the water, though now and
then, when a breaker rolls over me, I
close my moth, and am carried
through it. The boat is drifting ahead of me twenty or thirty feet, and,
when the great waves are passed, I overtake it, and find Sumner and Dunn
clinging to her. As soon as we reach quiet
water, we all swim to one side and turn her over. In doing this, Dunn
loses his hold and goes under; when he comes up, he is caught by Sumner and
pulled to the boat. In the meantime we have drifted down stream some distance,
and see another
rapid below. How bad it may be we
cannot tell, so we swim, toward shore, pulling
or boat with us, with all the vigor possible,
but are carried down much faster than
distance toward shore is gained. At last
we reach a huge pile of drift wood. Our rolls of blankets, two guns, and a barometer were in the open compartment of the boat, and, when
it went over, these were thrown out.
The guns and barometer are lost, but I succeeded in catching one of the rolls
of blankets, as it drifted by, when we
were swimming to shore; the other two
are lost, and sometimes hereafter we may sleep cold. A huge fire is built on the bank, or
clothing is spread
to dry, and then from the drift logs we select one from which we think oars can be made, and the remainder of the day is spent in sawing
them out. July 12. — This morning, the new oars are finished, and we start once more. We
pass several
bad rapids, making a short portage at one,
and before noon we come to a long, bad fall,
where the channel is filled with rocks
on the left, turning the waters to the right,
where they pass under an overhanging rock.
On examination, we determine to run it,
keeping as close to the left hand rocks as safety will permit, in order
to avoid the overhanging cliff. The little
boat runs over all right; another
follows, but the men are not able to
keep her near enough to the left bank, and she is carried, by a swift
chute, into great waves to the right, where
she is tossed about, and Bradley is knocked over the side, but his foot catching under the seat, he is dragged along in the water, with his head down; making great exertion, he seizes the gunwale with
his left hand, and can lift his head above water
now and then. To us who are below, it
seems impossible to keep the boat from going
under the overhanging cliff; but Powell,
for the moment, heedless of Bradley’s mishap,
pulls with all his power for half a dozen
strokes, when the danger is past; then he seizes Bradley, and pulls him
in. The men in the boat above, seeing this,
land, and she is let down by lines. Just here we emerge from the Cañon of Desolation, as we have named it, into a more open country, which extends for a distance of nearly a mile, when we enter another cañon,
cut through gray sandstone. About three o’clock in the afternoon we meet with a new difficulty. The river
fills the entire
channel; the walls are vertical on either
side, from the water’s edge, and a bad rapid is beset with rocks. We come to
the head of it, and
land on a rock in the stream; the little boat is let down to another rock below, the men of the larger boat
holding to the
line; the second boat is let down in the same way, and the line of the third
boat is brought with
them. Now, the third boat pushes out from the upper rock, and, as we have her line below, we pull in and
catch her, as she
is sweeping by at the foot of the rock on which we stand. Again the first boat
is let down stream the full length of her
line, and the second boat is passed down by
the first to the extent of her line, which is held by the men in the first boat; so she is two lines’ length from where she started. Then the
third boat is let down past the second, and still down, nearly to the length of her line, so that she is fast to the second boat, and swinging down three lines’ lengths, with the other two boats intervening. Held in this way, the men are able to pull her into a cove, in the left wall, where she is made fast. But this leaves a man on the rock above, holding to the line of the little boat. When all is ready, he springs from the rock, clinging to the line with one hand, and swimming with the other, and we pull him in as he goes by. As the two boats, thus loosened, drift down, the men in the cove pull us all in, as we come opposite; then we pass around to a point of rock below the cove, close to the wall, land, and make a short portage over the worst
places in the rapid, and start again. At night we camp on a sand beach; the wind blows a hurricane; the drifting sand almost blinds us; and nowhere can we find shelter. The wind continues to blow all night; the sand sifts through or blankets, and piles over us, until we are covered as in a snow-drift. We are glad when morning comes.
July 13. — This
morning, we have an exhilarating ride. The
river is swift, and there are many
smooth rapids. I stand on deck,
keeping careful watch ahead, and we glide
along, mile after mile, plying strokes now on the right, and then on the
left, just sufficient to guide or boats past
the rocks into smooth water. At noon
we emerge from Gray Cañon, as we have
named it, and camp, for dinner, under a cottonwood tree, standing on the
left bank. Extensive sand plains extend back from the immediate river valley, as far as
we can see, on either
side. These naked, drifting sands gleam brilliantly in the midday sun of July. The reflected heat from the
glaring surface produces a curious motion
of the atmosphere; little currents are generated, and the whole seems to be trembling and moving about in many directions, or, failing to see that the movement is in the
atmosphere, it gives the impression
of an unstable land. Plains, and
hills, and cliffs, and distant mountains
seem vaguely to be floating about in a
trembling, wave rocked sea, and patches of landscape will seem to float away, and be lost, and then
re-appear. Just opposite, there are buttes, that
are outliers of
cliffs to the left. Below, they are composed of shales and marls of light blue and slate colors; and above, the rocks
are buff and gray,
and then brown. The buttes are buttressed below, where the azure rocks are seen, and terraced above through
the gray and brown beds. A long line of cliffs or rock escarpments separate the table lands, through which Gray Cañon is cut, from the lower plain. The eye can trace these azure beds and cliffs, on either
side of the river, in a long line, extending across its course, until they fade away in the
perspective. These cliffs are many miles in
length, and hundreds of feet high; and all these buttes — great mountain-masses of rock — are dancing and fading away, and re-appearing, softly moving about, or
so they seem to the eye, as seen through the shifting atmosphere. This afternoon, or way is through a valley,
with cottonwood groves on either side. The river is deep, broad, and quiet. About two hors from noon camp, we discover an Indian crossing, where a number
of rafts, rudely constructed of logs
and bond together by withes, are floating
against the bank. On landing, we see
evidences that a party of Indians have
crossed within a very few days. This
is the place where the lamented Gunnison crossed, in the year 1853, when making an exploration for a railroad route
to the Pacific coast. An hour later, we run a long rapid, and
stop at its
foot to examine some curious rocks, deposited by mineral springs that at one time must have existed here, but
which are no longer flowing. July 14. — This morning, we pass some curios black bluffs on the right, then two
or three short cañons, and then we
discover the moth Of the San Rafael, a stream
which comes down from the distant
mountains in the west. Here we stop
for an hour or two, and take a short
walk up the valley, and find it is a
frequent resort for Indians. Arrow heads
are scattered about, many of them very
beautiful. Flint chips are seen strewn over
the ground in great profusion, and the trails are well worn. Starting after dinner, we pass some beautiful buttes on the left, many of which
are very
symmetrical. They are chiefly composed of gypsum of many hues, from light gray to slate color; then pink, purple,
and brown beds. Now, we enter another cañon. Gradually the walls rise higher and higher as we
proceed, and the
summit of the cañon is formed of the same beds Of orange colored sandstone. Back from the brink, the hollows
of the plateau are filled with sand
disintegrated from these orange beds. They
are of rich cream color, shaded into
maroon, everywhere destitute Of
vegetation, and drifted into long, wave like ridges. The course of the river is tortuous,
and it nearly doubles
upon itself many times. The water is quiet, and constant rowing is necessary to make much headway. Sometimes,
there is a narrow flood plain between the river and the wall, on one side or the
other. Where these
long, gentle curves are found, the river washes the very foot of the outer wall. A long peninsula of willow
bordered meadow
projects within the curve, and the talus, at the foot of the cliff, is usually
covered with dwarf
oaks. The orange colored sandstone is very homogeneous in structure, and the walls are usually vertical, though not very high. Where the river sweeps around a curve under a cliff, a vast hollow dome may be seen, with many caves and deep alcoves, that are greatly admired by the members of the
party, as we go by. We camp at night on the left bank. July 15. — Our camp is in a great bend of the cañon. The perimeter of the curve
is to the west, and
we are on the east side of the river. Just opposite, a little stream comes down through a narrow side cañon. We cross, and go up to explore it. Just at
its moth, another
lateral cañon enters, in the angle between the former and the main cañon above. Still another enters in
the angle between
the cañon below and the side cañon first mentioned, so that three side cañons enter at the same point. These cañons are very tortuous, almost closed
in from view, and,
seen from the opposite side of the river, they appear like three alcoves; and we name this Trin-Alcove Bend. Going up the little stream, in the
central cove, we pass
between high walls of sandstone, and wind about in glens. Springs gush from the rocks at the foot of the
walls; narrow passages
in the rocks are threaded, caves are
entered, and many side cañons are observed. The right cove is a narrow, winding gorge, with overhanging walls, almost shutting
out the light. The left is an amphitheater, turning spirally up, with overhanging shelves. A
series of basins, filled with
water, are seen at different altitudes, as we
pass up; huge rocks are piled below on
the right, and overhead there is an
arched ceiling. After exploring these
alcoves, we recross the river, and climb the rounded rocks on the point of the bend. In every direction, as far as we are able to see, naked rocks appear. Buttes are scattered on the landscape, here rounded into cones, there buttressed, columned, and carved in quaint shapes, with deep alcoves and sunken
recesses. All about us are basins, excavated
in the soft sandstones; and these have been filled by the late rains. Over the rounded rocks and water pockets
we look off on
a fine stretch of river, and beyond are naked rocks and beautiful buttes to the Azure Cliffs, and beyond these, and above them,
the Brown Cliffs, and still beyond,
mountain peaks; and clods piled over all. On we go, after dinner, with quiet water, still compelled to
row, in order to make fair progress. The cañon is yet very tortuous. About six miles below noon camp, we go around a great bend
to the right, five miles in length, and come
back to a point within a quarter of a mile of where we started. Then we sweep around another great bend to the left, making a circuit of nine miles, and come
back to the point within six hundred yards of the beginning of the bend.
In the two circuits, we describe almost the figure 8. The men call it a
bow-knot of river; so we name it Bow-Knot
Bend. The line of the figure is fourteen miles in length. There is an exquisite charm in or ride
today down this
beautiful cañon. It gradually grows
deeper with every mile of travel; the walls are symmetrically curved, and
grandly arched; of a beautiful color, and reflected
in the quiet waters in many places, so as to almost deceive the eye, and suggest the thought, to the beholder, that he is looking into profound depths. We are all in fine spirits, feel very gay, and the badinage of the men is echoed from wall to wall. Now and
then we whistle, or shout, or discharge a pistol,
to listen to the reverberations among the cliffs. At night we camp on the south side of
the great Bow-Knot,
and, as we eat or supper, which is
spread on the beach, we name this Labyrinth Cañon. July 16. — Still we go down, on our winding way. We pass tower cliffs, then we
find the river widens out for several
miles, and meadows are seen on either side, between the river and the walls. We name this expansion of the river Tower
Park. At two o’clock we emerge from Labyrinth Cañon, and go into camp. July 17. — The line which separates Labyrinth Cañon from the one below is
but a line, and at once, this morning, we enter another cañon. The water fills the entire channel, so that nowhere is there room to land. The walls are low, but vertical, and, as we
proceed, they gradually increase in altitude.
Running a couple of miles, the river
changes its course many degrees, toward
the east. Just here, a little stream comes
in on the right, and the wall is broken down; so we land, and go out to take a view of the surrounding country. We are now down among the buttes, and in a region the surface of which is naked, solid rock — a beautiful
red sandstone, forming a smooth, undulating
pavement. The Indians call this the “Toom’-pin Tu-weap’,” or “Rock Land,” and the “Toom’-pin wu-near’ Tuweap’,” or “Land of
Standing Rock.” Off to the south we see a butte, in the
form of a fallen
cross. It is several miles away, still it presents no inconspicuous figure on the landscape, and must be many hundreds
of feet high,
probably more than two thousand. We note its position on or map, and name it “The Butte of the Cross.” We continue or journey. In many places the walls, which rise from the
water’s edge, are
overhanging on either side. The stream is still quiet, and we glide along, through a strange, weird, grand region. The landscape everywhere, away from the
river, is of
rock — cliffs of rock; tables of rock; plateaus of rock; terraces of rock; crags of rock — ten thousand strangely carved forms. Rocks everywhere, and no vegetation; no soil; no sand. In long,
gentle curves, the river winds about these
rocks. When speaking of these rocks, we must not conceive of piles of boulders, or heaps of fragments, but a whole land of naked rock, with giant forms carved on it: cathedral shaped buttes, towering hundreds or thousands of
feet; cliffs that cannot be scaled, and cañon walls that shrink the
river into insignificance, with vast, hollow
domes, and tall pinnacles, and shafts set on the verge overhead, and all highly colored — buff, gray, red, brown, and chocolate; never lichened; never moss-covered; but bare, and often polished.
We pass a place where two bends of the river come together, an intervening rock
having been worn away, and a new
channel formed across. The old channel ran in
a great circle around to the right,
by what was once a circular
peninsula; then an island; then the
water left the old channel entirely, and passed through the cut, and the old
bed of the river is dry. So the great
circular rock stands by itself, with
precipitous walls all about it, and we find but one place where it can be scaled. Looking from its
summit, a long stretch
of river is seen, sweeping close to the overhanging cliffs on the right, but having a little meadow
between it and the wall on the left. The curve is very gentle and regular. We name this Bonita Bend. And just here we climb out once more, to
take another
bearing on The Butte of the Cross. Reaching an eminence, from which we can overlook the landscape, we are
surprised to find
that or butte, with its wonderful form, is indeed two buttes, one so standing in front of the other that, from our last point of view, it gave the appearance of a cross. Again, a few miles below Bonita Bend, we go out a mile or two along the
rocks, toward the
Orange Cliffs, passing over terraces paved
with jasper. The cliffs are not far away, and we soon
reach them, and
wander in some deep, painted alcoves, which attracted or attention from the river; then we return to
our boats. Late in the afternoon, the water becomes
swift, and or
boats make great speed. An hour of this rapid running brings us to the junction of the Grand and Green, the
foot of Stillwater Cañon, as we have
named it. These streams unite in solemn depths, more than one thousand two hundred feet below the general surface of the
country. The walls of
the lower end of Stillwater Cañon are very beautifully curved, as the river sweeps in its meandering course.
The lower end of
the cañon through which the Grand comes
down, is also regular, but much more direct,
and we look up this stream, and out
into the country beyond, and obtain glimpses
of snow clad peaks, the summits of a
group of mountains known as the Sierra La
Sal. Down the Colorado, the cañon walls are much broken. We row around into the Grand, and camp
on its northwest bank; and here we propose to stay several days, for the purpose
of determining the
latitude and longitude, and the altitude of the walls. Much of the night is spent in making observations with the
sextant. The distance from the moth of the Uinta to the head of the Cañon of Desolation
is twenty and
three-quarters miles. The Cañon of Desolation is ninety-seven miles long; Gray Cañon thirty-six. The course of the river through Gunnison’s Valley is twenty-seven and a quarter miles; Labyrinth Cañon,
sixty-two and a half miles. In the Cañon of Desolation, the highest
rocks immediately over the river
are about two thousand four hundred feet.
This is at Log Cabin Cliff. The
highest part Of the terrace is near the brink of the Brown Cliffs. Climbing the immediate walls of the cañon, and
passing back to the cañon terrace, and climbing
that, we find the altitude, above the
river, to be 3,300 feet. The lower end of Gray Cañon is about 2,000 feet; the lower end of Labyrinth Cañon,
1,300 feet. Stillwater Cañon is forty-two and
three-quarters miles
long; the highest walls, 1,300 feet. __________________ 1 Potato tops do make good greens when
they are young, but become poisonous as they mature, like poke shoots. (Ed.) |
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