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CHAPTER
VIII
THE GRAND
CANYON OF THE COLORADO 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! 1 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 or 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 clods 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 bear the roar of the great fall below; then we back on or
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 bit 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 or 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
darn 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 or 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. 2 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 moth 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 How-land’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 or 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.3 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 stem-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 stern‑post 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 ofttimes the
clods hid the sky by day, and but a narrow zone of stars cold 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, bit 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 shot 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. Tonight 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 or 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. _________________ 1 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. 2 It should
be remembered that Major Powell had only one arm. (Ed.) 3 For the
miserable fate of these men see forward under date of Sept. 19, 1870. (Ed.) |
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