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Title: First through the Grand Canyon
        Being the record of the pioneer exploration of the Colorado River in 1869-70

Author: John Wesley Powell

Editor: Horace Kephart

Release date: September 23, 2024 [eBook #74466]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Outing Publishing Company

Credits: deaurider, Craig Kirkwood, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIRST THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON ***


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FIRST THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON

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OUTING ADVENTURE LIBRARY




FIRST THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON


  BY MAJOR JOHN WESLEY POWELL

  Being the Record of the Pioneer Exploration
  of the Colorado River in 1869-70

  EDITED BY
  HORACE KEPHART

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY
  MCMXV

       *       *       *       *       *

  Copyright, 1915, by
  OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY

  _All rights reserved._




INTRODUCTION


The Colorado River of the West is formed in southeastern Utah by the
junction of the Grand and Green rivers. For hundreds of miles it flows
through a series of profound chasms, in many places from 4,000 to 6,000
feet deep, and rising nearly vertically for a considerable distance
above the water. These cañons are from one to fifteen miles wide at
the top. The most famous of them is the Marble-Grand cañon (really
continuous, although it goes under two names, the Marble and the
Grand). Through this vast gorge the Colorado drops 2,330 feet in 283
miles, the current sometimes attaining a velocity of twenty-five miles
an hour. The river itself varies in width from seventy-five feet to a
quarter of a mile. In the narrowest places it has at times a depth of
over 100 feet.

Up to 1869 practically nothing was known of the Colorado River from its
source to where it emerges into the valley of the Grand Wash, except
what could be observed from look-out points at the tops of the cañons,
or from the few places where descents had been made to the bottom. It
was a river of mystery and of fear. For long distances it was supposed
to flow underground. There was no evidence that any human being had
ever passed through the cañons and come out alive. The Indians who
lived in the neighborhood considered such a feat preposterous.

Then came a scientist and a man of nerve, Major John Wesley Powell,
who studied the river carefully at several points along its bank,
and calmly decided to risk his life in clearing up the mystery by
navigating the stream clear through to the Wash.

The undertaking was all the more remarkable from the fact that Powell
had only one arm. He had lost his right arm in the battle of Shiloh.
His plucky young wife, to whom he had been married but a month, was
present at headquarters when he was wounded, and promptly offered
herself as a substitute for the missing limb so that her husband could
continue in service. She then and there enlisted, and General Grant
gave her a “perpetual pass” to follow the army in the capacity she had
chosen. With this help Major Powell continued in active service to the
close of the war.

In his student days Powell had made a specialty of what was then called
“natural history.” When the war was over he accepted a professorship of
geology in the Illinois Wesleyan University, and later held a similar
chair in the Illinois Normal University. In the summer of 1867 he
initiated the practice of student field work by taking his class to
the mountains of Colorado for geological exploration. It was on this
trip that he formed the idea of exploring the cañons of the Colorado
River of the West. Having obtained funds from public institutions of
Illinois to outfit his little expedition, he started from Green River
City, above the head of the Colorado proper, May 24, 1869, on one of
the most hazardous adventures in the history of exploration. He emerged
from the Grand Cañon on August 29, with five of the nine men he had
started with. Four had deserted on the way, and three of these were
killed by Indians.

Major Powell’s report on this first exploration of the Colorado River
was published by the Smithsonian Institution in 1875. Together with
the scientific data appended, it forms a large quarto volume, which
is now out of print. The narrative part is here republished without
abridgement.

In 1870, Congress established a Topographical and Geological Survey of
the Colorado River of the West, and Powell was placed in charge of it.
In 1871-1872 he made a second descent of the river, this time for the
government. Again he came through unharmed, proving his mastery of a
species of navigation so difficult that many who have tried it in later
years have perished in those brawling waters.

Much of Powell’s attention was given to American ethnology, and when a
Bureau of Ethnology was formed by the government, he was appointed its
director. In 1881 he succeeded Clarence King as director of the U. S.
Geological Survey. Major Powell died September 23, 1902.

HORACE KEPHART.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                             PAGE

     I THE VALLEY OF THE COLORADO                      15

    II FROM GREEN RIVER CITY TO FLAMING GORGE          27

   III FROM FLAMING GORGE TO THE GATE OF LODORE        39

    IV THE CANYON OF LODORE                            60

     V FROM ECHO PARK TO THE MOUTH OF THE UINTA RIVER  83

    VI FROM THE MOUTH OF THE UINTA RIVER TO JUNCTION
       OF THE GRAND AND GREEN                         113

   VII FROM THE JUNCTION OF THE GRAND AND GREEN TO
       THE MOUTH OF THE LITTLE COLORADO               142

  VIII THE GRAND CANYON OF THE COLORADO               198

    IX THE RIO VIRGEN AND THE U-IN-KA-RET MOUNTAINS   258

       *       *       *       *       *

FIRST THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON




CHAPTER I THE VALLEY OF THE COLORADO


The Colorado River is formed by the junction of the Grand and Green.

The Grand River has its source in the Rocky Mountains, five or six
miles west of Long’s Peak, in latitude 40° 17′ and longitude 105° 43′
approximately. A group of little alpine lakes, that receive their
waters directly from perpetual snow-banks, discharge into a common
reservoir, known as Grand Lake, a beautiful sheet of water. Its quiet
surface reflects towering cliffs and crags of granite on its eastern
shore; and stately pines and firs stand on its western margin.

The Green River heads near Frémont’s Peak, in the Wind River Mountains,
in latitude 43° 15′ and longitude 109° 45′, approximately. This river,
like the last, has its sources in alpine lakes, fed by everlasting
snows. Thousands of these little lakes, with deep, cold, emerald
waters, are embosomed among the crags of the Rocky Mountains. These
streams, born in the cold, gloomy solitudes of the upper mountain
region, have a strange, eventful history as they pass down through
gorges, tumbling in cascades and cataracts, until they reach the hot,
arid plains of the Lower Colorado, where the waters that were so clear
above empty as turbid floods into the Gulf of California.

The mouth of the Colorado is in latitude 31° 53′ and longitude 115°.

The Green River is larger than the Grand, and is the upper continuation
of the Colorado. Including this river, the whole length of the stream
is about two thousand miles. The region of country drained by the
Colorado and its tributaries is about eight hundred miles in length,
and varies from three hundred to five hundred in width, containing
about three hundred thousand square miles, an area larger than all the
New England and Middle States, and Maryland and Virginia added, or as
large as Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, Illinois, and Missouri.

There are two distinct portions of the basin of the Colorado. The lower
third is but little above the level of the sea, though here and there
ranges of mountains rise to an altitude of from two to six thousand
feet. This part of the valley is bounded on the north by a line of
cliffs, that present a bold, often vertical step, hundreds or thousands
of feet to the table-lands above.

The upper two-thirds of the basin rises from four to eight thousand
feet above the level of the sea. This high region, on the east, north,
and west, is set with ranges of snow-clad mountains, attaining an
altitude above the sea varying from eight to fourteen thousand feet.
All winter long, on its mountain-crested rim, snow falls, filling the
gorges, half burying the forests, and covering the crags and peaks
with a mantle woven by the winds from the waves of the sea--a mantle
of snow. When the summer-sun comes, this snow melts, and tumbles down
the mountain-sides in millions of cascades. Ten million cascade brooks
unite to form ten thousand torrent creeks; ten thousand torrent creeks
unite to form a hundred rivers beset with cataracts; a hundred roaring
rivers unite to form the Colorado, which rolls, a mad, turbid stream,
into the Gulf of California.

Consider the action of one of these streams: its source in the
mountains, where the snows fall; its course through the arid plains.
Now, if at the river’s flood storms were falling on the plains, its
channel would be cut but little faster than the adjacent country would
be washed, and the general level would thus be preserved; but, under
the conditions here mentioned, the river deepens its bed, as there is
much through corrosion and but little lateral degradation.

So all the streams cut deeper and still deeper until their banks are
towering cliffs of solid rock. These deep, narrow gorges are called
cañons.

For more than a thousand miles along its course, the Colorado has cut
for itself such a cañon; but at some few points, where lateral streams
join it, the cañon is broken, and narrow, transverse valleys divide it
properly into a series of cañons.

The Virgen, Kanab, Paria, Escalante, Dirty Devil, San Rafael, Price,
and Uinta on the west, the Grand, Yampa, San Juan, and Colorado
Chiquito on the east, have also cut for themselves such narrow, winding
gorges, or deep cañons. Every river entering these has cut another
cañon; every lateral creek has cut a cañon; every brook runs in a
cañon; every rill born of a shower, and born again of a shower, and
living only during these showers, has cut for itself a cañon; so that
the whole upper portion of the basin of the Colorado is traversed by a
labyrinth of these deep gorges.

Owing to a great variety of geological conditions, these cañons differ
much in general aspect. The Rio Virgen, between Long Valley and the
Mormon town of Schunesburgh, runs through Pa-ru′-nu-weap Cañon, often
not more than twenty or thirty feet in width, and from six hundred to
one thousand five hundred feet deep.

Away to the north, the Yampa empties into the Green by a cañon that I
essayed to cross in the fall of 1868, and was baffled from day to day
until the fourth had nearly passed before I could find my way down
to the river. But thirty miles above its mouth, this cañon ends, and
a narrow valley, with a flood-plain, is found. Still farther up the
stream, the river comes down through another cañon, and beyond that a
narrow valley is found, and its upper course is now through a cañon and
now a valley.

All these cañons are alike changeable in their topographic
characteristics.

The longest cañon through which the Colorado runs is that between the
mouth of the Colorado Chiquito and the Grand Wash, a distance of two
hundred and seventeen and a half miles. But this is separated from
another above, sixty-five and a half miles in length, only by the
narrow cañon-valley of the Colorado Chiquito.

All the scenic features of this cañon land are on a giant scale,
strange and weird. The streams run at depths almost inaccessible;
lashing the rocks which beset their channels; rolling in rapids, and
plunging in falls, and making a wild music which but adds to the gloom
of the solitude.

The little valleys nestling along the streams are diversified by
bordering willows, clumps of box-elder, and small groves of cottonwood.

Low _mesas_, dry and treeless, stretch back from the brink of the
cañon, often showing smooth surfaces of naked, solid rock. In some
places, the country rock being composed of marls, the surface is a
bed of loose, disintegrated material, and you walk through it as in
a bed of ashes. Often these marls are richly colored and variegated.
In other places, the country rock is a loose sandstone, the
disintegration of which has left broad stretches of drifting sand,
white, golden, and vermilion.

Where this sandstone is a conglomerate, a paving of pebbles has been
left, a mosaic of many colors, polished by the drifting sands, and
glistening in the sunlight.

After the cañons, the most remarkable features of the country are
the long lines of cliffs. These are bold escarpments, often hundreds
or thousands of feet in altitude, great geographic steps, scores or
hundreds of miles in length, presenting steep faces of rock, often
quite vertical.

Having climbed one of these steps, you may descend by a gentle,
sometimes imperceptible, slope to the foot of another. They will thus
present a series of terraces, the steps of which are well-defined
escarpments of rock. The lateral extension of such a line of cliffs
is usually very irregular; sharp salients are projected on the plains
below, and deep recesses are cut into the terraces above.

Intermittent streams coming down the cliffs have cut many cañons or
cañon valleys, by which the traveler may pass from the plain below to
the terrace above. By these gigantic stairways, you may ascend to high
plateaus, covered with forests of pine and fir.

The region is further diversified by short ranges of eruptive
mountains. A vast system of fissures--huge cracks in the rocks to the
depths below--extends across the country. From these crevices, floods
of lava have poured, covering _mesas_ and table-lands with sheets of
black basalt. The expiring energies of these volcanic agencies have
piled up huge cinder-cones, that stand along the fissures, red, brown,
and black, naked of vegetation, and conspicuous landmarks, set, as they
are, in contrast to the bright, variegated rocks of sedimentary origin.

These cañon gorges, obstructing cliffs and desert wastes, have
prevented the traveler from penetrating the country, so that, until
the Colorado River Exploring Expedition was organized, it was almost
unknown. Yet enough had been seen to foment rumor, and many wonderful
stories have been told in the hunter’s cabin and prospector’s camp.
Stories were related of parties entering the gorge in boats, and being
carried down with fearful velocity into whirlpools, where all were
overwhelmed in the abyss of waters; others, of underground passages for
the great river, into which boats had passed never to be seen again.
It was currently believed that the river was lost under the rocks for
several hundred miles. There were other accounts of great falls, whose
roaring music could be heard on the distant mountain-summits. There
were many stories current of parties wandering on the brink of the
cañon, vainly endeavoring to reach the waters below, and perishing with
thirst at last in sight of the river which was roaring its mockery into
dying ears.

The Indians, too, have woven the mysteries of the cañons into the
myths of their religion. Long ago, there was a great and wise chief,
who mourned the death of his wife, and would not be comforted until
Ta-vwoats, one of the Indian gods, came to him, and told him she was
in a happier land, and offered to take him there, that he might see
for himself, if, upon his return, he would cease to mourn. The great
chief promised. Then Ta-vwoats made a trail through the mountains that
intervene between that beautiful land and this, the desert home of the
poor Nu′-ma.

This trail was the cañon gorge of the Colorado. Through it he led him;
and, when they had returned, the deity exacted from the chief a promise
that he would tell no one of the joys of that land, lest, through
discontent with the circumstances of this world, they should desire
to go to heaven. Then he rolled a river into the gorge, a mad, raging
stream, that should engulf any that might attempt to enter thereby.

More than once have I been warned by the Indians not to enter this
cañon. They considered it disobedience to the gods and contempt for
their authority, and believed that it would surely bring upon me their
wrath.

For two years previous to the exploration, I had been making some
geological studies among the heads of the cañons leading to the
Colorado, and a desire to explore the Grand Cañon itself grew upon
me. Early in the spring of 1869, a small party was organized for this
purpose. Boats were built in Chicago, and transported by rail to the
point where the Union Pacific Railroad crosses the Green River. With
these we were to descend the Green into the Colorado, and the Colorado
down to the foot of the Grand Cañon.




CHAPTER II FROM GREEN RIVER CITY TO FLAMING GORGE


May 24, 1869.--The good people of Green River City turn out to see us
start. We raise our little flag, push the boats from shore, and the
swift current carries us down.

Our boats are four in number. Three are built of oak; stanch and
firm; double-ribbed, with double stem and stern posts, and further
strengthened by bulkheads, dividing each into three compartments.

Two of these, the fore and aft, are decked, forming water-tight cabins.
It is expected these will buoy the boats should the waves roll over
them in rough water. The little vessels are twenty-one feet long, and,
taking out the cargoes, can be carried by four men.

The fourth boat is made of pine, very light, but sixteen feet in
length, with a sharp cut-water, and every way built for fast rowing,
and divided into compartments as the others.

We take with us rations deemed sufficient to last ten months; for we
expect, when winter comes on and the river is filled with ice, to lie
over at some point until spring arrives; so we take with us abundant
supplies of clothing. We have also a large quantity of ammunition and
two or three dozen traps. For the purpose of building cabins, repairing
boats, and meeting other exigencies, we are supplied with axes,
hammers, saws, augers, and other tools, and a quantity of nails and
screws. For scientific work, we have two sextants, four chronometers, a
number of barometers, thermometers, compasses, and other instruments.

The flour is divided into three equal parts; the meat and all other
articles of our rations in the same way. Each of the larger boats has
an ax, hammer, saw, auger, and other tools, so that all are loaded
alike. We distribute the cargoes in this way, that we may not be
entirely destitute of some important article should any one of the
boats be lost. In the small boat, we pack a part of the scientific
instruments, three guns, and three small bundles of clothing only. In
this, I proceed in advance, to explore the channel.

J. C. Sumner and William H. Dunn are my boatmen in the _Emma Dean_;[1]
then follows _Kitty Clyde’s Sister_, manned by W. H. Powell[2] and G.
Y. Bradley; next, the _No Name_, with O. G. Howland, Seneca Howland,
and Frank Goodman; and last comes the _Maid of the Cañon_, with W. R.
Hawkins and Andrew Hall.

Our boats are heavily loaded, and only with the utmost care is it
possible to float in the rough river without shipping water.

A mile or two below town, we run on a sand-bar. The men jump into the
stream, and thus lighten the vessels, so that they drift over; and
on we go. In trying to avoid a rock, an oar is broken on one of the
boats, and, thus crippled, she strikes. The current is swift, and she
is sent reeling and rocking into the eddy. In the confusion, two others
are lost overboard and the men seem quite discomfited, much to the
amusement of the other members of the party.

Catching the oars and starting again, the boats are once more borne
down the stream until we land at a small cottonwood grove on the bank,
and camp for noon.

During the afternoon, we run down to a point where the river sweeps
the foot of an overhanging cliff, and here we camp for the night. The
sun is yet two hours high, so I climb the cliffs, and walk back among
the strangely carved rocks of the Green River bad-lands. These are
sandstones and shales, gray and buff, red and brown, blue and black
strata in many alternations, lying nearly horizontal, and almost
without soil and vegetation. They are very friable, and the rain
and streams have carved them into quaint shapes. Barren desolation
is stretched before me; and yet there is a beauty in the scene. The
fantastic carving, imitating architectural forms, and suggesting rude
but weird statuary, with the bright and varied colors of the rocks,
conspire to make a scene such as the dweller in verdure-clad hills can
scarcely appreciate.

Standing on a high point, I can look off in every direction over a vast
landscape, with salient rocks and cliffs glittering in the evening sun.
Dark shadows are settling in the valleys and gulches, and the heights
are made higher and the depths deeper by the glamour and witchery of
light and shade.

Away to the south, the Uinta Mountains stretch in a long line; high
peaks thrust into the sky, and snow-fields glittering like lakes of
molten silver; and pine-forests in somber green; and rosy clouds
playing around the borders of huge, black masses; and heights and
clouds, and mountains and snow-fields, and forests and rock-lands, are
blended into one grand view. Now the sun goes down, and I return to
camp.

_May 25._--We start early this morning, and run along at a good rate
until about nine o’clock, when we are brought up on a gravelly bar. All
jump out, and help the boats over by main strength. Then a rain comes
on, and river and clouds conspire to give us a thorough drenching.
Wet, chilled, and tired to exhaustion, we stop at a cottonwood grove
on the bank, build a huge fire, make a cup of coffee, and are soon
refreshed and quite merry. When the clouds “get out of our sunshine,”
we start again. A few miles farther down, a flock of mountain-sheep are
seen on a cliff to the right. The boats are quietly tied up, and three
or four men go after them. In the course of two or three hours, they
return. The cook has been successful in bringing down a fat lamb. The
unsuccessful hunters taunt him with finding it dead; but it is soon
dressed, cooked, and eaten, making a fine four o’clock dinner.

“All aboard,” and down the river for another dozen miles. On the way,
we pass the mouth of Black’s Fork, a dirty little stream that seems
somewhat swollen. Just below its mouth, we land and camp.

_May 26._--To-day, we pass several curiously-shaped buttes, standing
between the west bank of the river and the high bluffs beyond.
These buttes are outliers of the same beds of rocks exposed on the
faces of the bluffs; thinly laminated shales and sandstones of many
colors, standing above in vertical cliffs, and buttressed below with
a water-carved talus; some of them attain an altitude of nearly a
thousand feet above the level of the river.

We glide quietly down the placid stream past the carved cliffs of
the _mauvaises terres_, now and then obtaining glimpses of distant
mountains. Occasionally, deer are started from the glades among the
willows; and several wild geese, after a chase through the water, are
shot.

After dinner, we pass through a short, narrow cañon into a broad
valley; from this, long, lateral valleys stretch back on either side as
far as the eye can reach.

Two or three miles below, Henry’s Fork enters from the right. We land
a short distance above the junction, where a _cache_ of instruments
and rations was made several months ago, in a cave at the foot of
the cliff, a distance back from the river. Here it was safe from the
elements and wild beasts, but not from man. Some anxiety is felt, as
we have learned that a party of Indians have been camped near it for
several weeks. Our fears are soon allayed, for we find it all right.
Our chronometer wheels are not taken for hair ornaments; our barometer
tubes, for beads; nor the sextant thrown into the river as “bad
medicine,” as had been predicted.

Taking up our _cache_, we pass down to the foot of the Uinta Mountains,
and, in a cold storm, go into camp.

The river is running to the south; the mountains have an easterly and
westerly trend directly athwart its course, yet it glides on in a
quiet way as if it thought a mountain range no formidable obstruction
to its course. It enters the range by a flaring, brilliant, red gorge,
that may be seen from the north a score of miles away.

The great mass of the mountain-ridge through which the gorge is cut is
composed of bright vermilion rocks; but they are surmounted by broad
bands of mottled buff and gray, and these bands come down with a gentle
curve to the water’s edge on the nearer slope of the mountain.

This is the head of the first cañon we are about to explore--an
introductory one to a series made by the river through this range. We
name it Flaming Gorge. The cliffs or walls we find, on measurement, to
be about one thousand two hundred feet high.

_May 27._--To-day it rains, and we employ the time in repairing one of
our barometers, which was broken on the way from New York. A new tube
has to be put in; that is, a long glass tube has to be filled with
mercury four or five inches at a time, and each installment boiled
over a spirit-lamp. It is a delicate task to do this without breaking
the glass; but we have success, and are ready to measure the mountains
once more.

_May 28._--To-day we go to the summit of the cliff on the left and take
observations for altitude, and are variously employed in topographic
and geological work.

_May 29._--This morning, Bradley and I cross the river, and climb more
than a thousand feet to a point where we can see the stream sweeping in
a long, beautiful curve through the gorge below. Turning and looking
to the west, we can see the valley of Henry’s Fork, through which, for
many miles, the little river flows in a tortuous channel. Cottonwood
groves are planted here and there along its course, and between them
are stretches of grass land. The narrow mountain valley is inclosed on
either side by sloping walls of naked rock of many bright colors. To
the south of the valley are the Uintas, and the peaks of the Wasatch
Mountains can be faintly seen in the far west. To the north, desert
plains, dotted here and there with curiously carved hills and buttes,
extend to the limit of vision.

For many years, this valley has been the home of a number of
mountaineers, who were originally hunters and trappers, living with the
Indians. Most of them have one or more Indian wives. They no longer
roam with the nomadic tribes in pursuit of buckskin or beaver, but have
accumulated herds of cattle and horses, and consider themselves quite
well-to-do. Some of them have built cabins; others still live in lodges.

John Baker is one of the most famous of these men; and, from our point
of view, we can see his lodge three or four miles up the river.

The distance from Green River City to Flaming Gorge is sixty-two miles.
The river runs between bluffs, in some places standing so close to
each other that no flood-plain is seen. At such a point, the river
might properly be said to run through a cañon. The bad-lands on either
side are interrupted here and there by patches of _Artemesia_, or
sage-brush. Where there is a flood-plain along either side of the
river, a few cottonwoods may be seen.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Mrs. Powell’s maiden name. (_Ed._)

[2] Capt. Walter Powell, the Major’s youngest brother. Besides the two
Powells, Sumner, Bradley, and Hawkins were ex-soldiers. (_Ed._)




CHAPTER III FROM FLAMING GORGE TO THE GATE OF LODORE


You must not think of a mountain-range as a line of peaks standing on
a plain, but as a broad platform many miles wide, from which mountains
have been carved by the waters. You must conceive, too, that this
plateau is cut by gulches and cañons in many directions, and that
beautiful valleys are scattered about at different altitudes. The
first series of cañons we are about to explore constitutes a river
channel through such a range of mountains. The cañon is cut nearly
half-way through the range, then turns to the east, and is cut along
the central line, or axis, gradually crossing it to the south. Keeping
this direction for more than fifty miles, it then turns abruptly to a
southwest course, and goes diagonally through the southern slope of the
range.

This much we knew before entering, as we made a partial exploration of
the region last fall, climbing many of its peaks, and in a few places
reaching the brink of the cañon walls, and looking over the precipices,
many hundreds of feet high, to the water below.

Here and there the walls are broken by lateral cañons, the channels of
little streams entering the river; through two or three of these, we
found our way down to the Green in early winter, and walked along the
low water-beach at the foot of the cliffs for several miles. Where the
river has this general easterly direction, the western part only has
cut for itself a cañon, while the eastern has formed a broad valley,
called, in honor of an old-time trapper, Brown’s Park, and long known
as a favorite winter resort for mountain men and Indians.

_May 30._--This morning we are ready to enter the mysterious cañon, and
start with some anxiety. The old mountaineers tell us that it cannot
be run; the Indians say, “Water heap catch ’em,” but all are eager for
the trial, and off we go.

Entering Flaming Gorge, we quickly run through it on a swift current,
and emerge into a little park. Half a mile below, the river wheels
sharply to the left, and we turn into another cañon cut into the
mountain. We enter the narrow passage. On either side, the walls
rapidly increase in altitude. On the left are overhanging ledges and
cliffs five hundred--a thousand--fifteen hundred feet high.

On the right, the rocks are broken and ragged, and the water fills
the channel from cliff to cliff. Now the river turns abruptly around
a point to the right, and the waters plunge swiftly down among great
rocks; and here we have our first experience with cañon rapids. I stand
up on the deck of my boat to seek a way among the wave beaten rocks.
All untried as we are with such waters, the moments are filled with
intense anxiety. Soon our boats reach the swift current; a stroke or
two, now on this side, now on that, and we thread the narrow passage
with exhilarating velocity, mounting the high waves, whose foaming
crests dash over us, and plunging into the troughs, until we reach the
quiet water below; and then comes a feeling of great relief. Our first
rapid is run. Another mile, and we come into the valley again.

Let me explain this cañon. Where the river turns to the left above,
it takes a course directly into the mountain, penetrating to its very
heart, then wheels back upon itself, and runs out into the valley from
which it started only half a mile below the point at which it entered;
so the cañon is in the form of an elongated letter U, with the apex in
the center of the mountain. We name it Horseshoe Cañon.

Soon we leave the valley, and enter another short cañon, very narrow at
first, but widening below as the cañon walls increase in height. Here
we discover the mouth of a beautiful little creek, coming down through
its narrow water worn cleft. Just at its entrance there is a park of
two or three hundred acres, walled on every side by almost vertical
cliffs, hundreds of feet in altitude, with three gateways through the
walls--one up, another down the river, and a third passage through
which the creek comes in. The river is broad, deep, and quiet, and its
waters mirror towering rocks.

Kingfishers are playing about the streams, and so we adopt as names
Kingfisher Creek, Kingfisher Park, and Kingfisher Cañon. At night, we
camp at the foot of this cañon.

Our general course this day has been south, but here the river turns to
the east around a point which is rounded to the shape of a dome, and on
its sides little cells have been carved by the action of the water; and
in these pits, which cover the face of the dome, hundreds of swallows
have built their nests. As they flit about the cliffs, they look like
swarms of bees, giving to the whole the appearance of a colossal
beehive of the old time form, and so we name it Beehive Point.

The opposite wall is a vast amphitheater, rising in a succession of
terraces to a height of 1,200 or 1,500 feet. Each step is built of
red sandstone, with a face of naked, red rock, and a glacis clothed
with verdure. So the amphitheater seems banded red and green, and
the evening sun is playing with roseate flashes on the rocks, with
shimmering green on the cedars’ spray, and iridescent gleams on the
dancing waves. The landscape revels in the sunshine.

_May 31._--We start down another cañon, and reach rapids made dangerous
by high rocks lying in the channel; so we run ashore, and let our boats
down with lines. In the afternoon we come to more dangerous rapids,
and stop to examine them. I find we must do the same work again, but,
being on the wrong side of the river to obtain a foothold, must first
cross over--no very easy matter in such a current, with rapids and
rocks below. We take the pioneer boat _Emma Dean_ over, and unload her
on the bank; then she returns and takes another load. Running back and
forth, she soon has half our cargo over; then one of the larger boats
is manned and taken across, but carried down almost to the rocks in
spite of hard rowing. The other boats follow and make the landing, and
we go into camp for the night.

At the foot of the cliff on this side, there is a long slope covered
with pines; under these we make our beds, and soon after sunset are
seeking rest and sleep. The cliffs on either side are of red sandstone,
and stretch up toward the heavens 2,500 feet. On this side, the long,
pine clad slope is surmounted by perpendicular cliffs, with pines on
their summits. The wall on the other side is bare rock from the water’s
edge up 2,000 feet, then slopes back, giving footing to pines and
cedars.

As the twilight deepens, the rocks grow dark and somber; the
threatening roar of the water is loud and constant, and I lie awake
with thoughts of the morrow and the cañons to come, interrupted now and
then by characteristics of the scenery that attract my attention. And
here I make a discovery. On looking at the mountain directly in front,
the steepness of the slope is greatly exaggerated, while the distance
to its summit and its true altitude are correspondingly diminished. I
have heretofore found that to properly judge of the slope of a mountain
side, you must see it in profile. In coming down the river this
afternoon, I observed the slope of a particular part of the wall, and
made an estimate of its altitude. While at supper, I noticed the same
cliff from a position facing it, and it seemed steeper, but not half
as high. Now lying on my side and looking at it, the true proportions
appear. This seems a wonder, and I rise up to take a view of it
standing. It is the same cliff as at supper time. Lying down again, it
is the cliff as seen in profile, with a long slope and distant summit.
Musing on this, I forget “the morrow and the cañons to come.” I find a
way to estimate the altitude and slope of an inclination as I can judge
of distance along the horizon. The reason is simple. A reference to
the stereoscope will suggest it. The distance between the eyes forms a
base-line for optical triangulation.

_June 1._--To-day we have an exciting ride. The river rolls down the
cañon at a wonderful rate, and, with no rocks in the way, we make
almost railroad speed. Here and there the water rushes into a narrow
gorge; the rocks on the side roll it into the center in great waves,
and the boats go leaping and bounding over these like things of life.
They remind me of scenes witnessed in Middle Park; herds of startled
deer bounding through forests beset with fallen timber. I mention the
resemblance to some of the hunters, and so striking is it that it comes
to be a common expression, “See the black-tails jumping the logs.” At
times the waves break and roll over the boats, which necessitates much
bailing, and obliges us to stop occasionally for that purpose. At one
time, we run twelve miles an hour, stoppages included.

Last spring, I had a conversation with an old Indian named Pa′-ri-ats,
who told me about one of his tribe attempting to run this cañon. “The
rocks,” he said, holding his hands above his head, his arms vertical,
and looking between them to the heavens, “the rocks h-e-a-p, h-e-a-p
high; the water go h-oo-woogh, h-oo-woogh; water-pony (boat) h-e-a-p
buck; water catch ’em; no see ’em Injun any more! no see ’em squaw any
more! no see ’em pappoose any more!”

Those who have seen these wild Indian ponies rearing alternately before
and behind, or “bucking,” as it is called in the vernacular, will
appreciate his description.

At last we come to calm water, and a threatening roar is heard in the
distance. Slowly approaching the point whence the sound issues, we come
near to falls, and tie up just above them on the left. Here we will be
compelled to make a portage; so we unload the boats, and fasten a long
line to the bow, and another to the stern, of the smaller one, and
moor her close to the brink of the fall. Then the bow-line is taken
below, and made fast; the stern-line is held by five or six men, and
the boat let down as long as they can hold her against the rushing
waters; then, letting go one end of the line, it runs through the ring;
the boat leaps over the fall, and is caught by the lower rope.

Now we rest for the night.

_June 2._--This morning we make a trail among the rocks, transport the
cargoes to a point below the falls, let the remaining boats over, and
are ready to start before noon.

On a high rock by which the trail passes we find the inscription:
“Ashley 18-5.” The third figure is obscure--some of the party reading
it 1835, some 1855.[3]

James Baker, an old time mountaineer, once told me about a party of men
starting down the river, and Ashley was named as one. The story runs
that the boat was swamped, and some of the party drowned in one of the
cañons below. The word “Ashley” is a warning to us, and we resolve on
great caution.

Ashley Falls is the name we give to the cataract.

The river is very narrow; the right wall vertical for two or three
hundred feet, the left towering to a great height, with a vast pile of
broken rocks lying between the foot of the cliff and the water. Some
of the rocks broken down from the ledge above have tumbled into the
channel and caused this fall. One great cubical block, thirty or forty
feet high, stands in the middle of the stream, and the waters, parting
to either side, plunge down about twelve feet, and are broken again by
the smaller rocks into a rapid below. Immediately below the falls, the
water occupies the entire channel, there being no talus at the foot of
the cliffs.

We embark, and run down a short distance, where we find a landing-place
for dinner.

On the waves again all the afternoon. Near the lower end of this cañon,
to which we have given the name Red Cañon, is a little park, where
streams come down from distant mountain summits, and enter the river on
either side; and here we camp for the night under two stately pines.

_June 3._--This morning we spread our rations, clothes, &c., on the
ground to dry, and several of the party go out for a hunt. I take a
walk of five or six miles up to a pine grove park, its grassy carpet
bedecked with crimson, velvet flowers, set in groups on the stems of
pear shaped cactus plants; patches of painted cups are seen here and
there, with yellow blossoms protruding through scarlet bracts; little
blue-eyed flowers are peeping through the grass; and the air is filled
with fragrance from the white blossoms of a _Spiræa_. A mountain brook
runs through the midst, ponded below by beaver dams. It is a quiet
place for retirement from the raging waters of the cañon.

It will be remembered that the course of the river, from Flaming Gorge
to Beehive Point, is in a southerly direction, and at right angles to
the Uinta Mountains, and cuts into the range until it reaches a point
within five miles of the crest, where it turns to the east, and pursues
a course not quite parallel to the trend of the range, but crosses the
axis slowly in a direction a little south of east. Thus there is a
triangular tract between the river and the axis of the mountain, with
its acute angle extending eastward. I climb a mountain overlooking this
country. To the east, the peaks are not very high, and already most of
the snow has melted; but little patches lie here and there under the
lee of ledges of rock. To the west, the peaks grow higher and the snow
fields larger. Between the brink of the cañon and the foot of these
peaks, there is a high bench. A number of creeks have their sources in
the snow banks to the south, and run north into the cañon, tumbling
down from 3,000 to 5,000 feet in a distance of five or six miles. Along
their upper courses, they run through grassy valleys; but, as they
approach Red Cañon, they rapidly disappear under the general surface of
the country, and emerge into the cañon below in deep, dark gorges of
their own. Each of these short lateral cañons is marked by a succession
of cascades and a wild confusion of rocks and trees and fallen timber
and thick undergrowth.

The little valleys above are beautiful parks; between the parks are
stately pine forests, half hiding ledges of red sandstone. Mule-deer
and elk abound; grizzly bears, too, are abundant; wild cats,
wolverines, and mountain lions are here at home. The forest aisles are
filled with the music of birds, and the parks are decked with flowers.
Noisy brooks meander through them; ledges of moss-covered rocks are
seen; and gleaming in the distance are the snow fields, and the
mountain tops are away in the clouds.

_June 4._--We start early and run through to Brown’s Park. Half way
down the valley, a spur of a red mountain stretches across the river,
which cuts a cañon through it. Here the walls are comparatively low,
but vertical. A vast number of swallows have built their _adobe_ houses
on the face of the cliffs, on either side of the river. The waters are
deep and quiet, but the swallows are swift and noisy enough, sweeping
by in their curved paths through the air, or chattering from the rocks.
The young birds stretch their little heads on naked necks through the
doorways of their mud houses, clamoring for food. They are a noisy
people.

We call this Swallow Cañon.

Still down the river we glide, until an early hour in the afternoon,
when we go into camp under a giant cottonwood, standing on the right
bank, a little way back from the stream. The party had succeeded in
killing a fine lot of wild ducks, and during the afternoon a mess of
fish is taken.

_June 5._--With one of the men, I climb a mountain, off on the right.
A long spur, with broken ledges of rocks, puts down to the river;
and along its course, or up the “hog-back,” as it is called, I make
the ascent. Dunn, who is climbing to the same point, is coming up
the gulch. Two hours’ hard work has brought us to the summit. These
mountains are all verdure clad; pine and cedar forests are set on green
terraces; snow clad mountains are seen in the distance, to the west;
the plains of the upper Breen stretch out before us, to the north,
until they are lost in the blue heavens; but half of the river cleft
range intervenes, and the river itself is at our feet.

This half range, beyond the river, is composed of long ridges, nearly
parallel with the valley. On the farther ridge, to the north, four
creeks have their sources. These cut through the intervening ridges,
one of which is much higher than that on which they head, by cañon
gorges; then they run, with gentle curves, across the valley, their
banks set with willows, box-elders, and cottonwood groves.

To the east, we look up the valley of the Vermilion, through which
Frémont found his path on his way to the great parks of Colorado.

The reading of the barometer taken, we start down in company, and reach
camp tired and hungry, which does not abate one bit our enthusiasm, as
we tell of the day’s work, with its glory of landscape.

_June 6._--At daybreak, I am awakened by a chorus of birds. It seems
as if all the feathered songsters of the region have come to the old
tree. Several species of warblers, woodpeckers, and flickers above,
meadowlarks in the grass, and wild geese in the river. I recline on
my elbow, and watch a lark near by, and then awaken my bed fellow,
to listen to my Jenny Lind. A morning concert for me; none of your
“_matinées_.”

Our cook has been an ox-driver, or “bullwhacker,” on the plains, in one
of those long trains now no longer seen, and he hasn’t forgotten his
old ways. In the midst of the concert, his voice breaks in: “Roll out!
roll out! bulls in the corral! chain up the gaps! Roll out! roll out!
roll out!” And this is our breakfast bell.

To-day we pass through the park, and camp at the head of another cañon.

_June 7._--To-day, two or three of us climb to the summit of the cliff,
on the left, and find its altitude, above camp, to be 2,086 feet. The
rocks are split with fissures, deep and narrow, sometimes a hundred
feet, or more, to the bottom. Lofty pines find root in the fissures
that are filled with loose earth and decayed vegetation. On a rock
we find a pool of clear, cold water, caught from yesterday evening’s
shower. After a good drink, we walk out to the brink of the cañon,
and look down to the water below. I can do this now, but it has taken
several years of mountain climbing to cool my nerves, so that I can
sit, with my feet over the edge, and calmly look down a precipice 2,000
feet. And yet I cannot look on and see another do the same. I must
either bid him come away, or turn my head.

The cañon walls are buttressed on a grand scale, with deep alcoves
intervening; columned crags crown the cliffs, and the river is rolling
below.

When we return to camp, at noon, the sun shines in splendor on
vermilion walls, shaded into green and gray, where the rocks are
lichened over; the river fills the channel from wall to wall, and the
cañon opens, like a beautiful portal, to a region of glory.

This evening, as I write, the sun is going down, and the shadows are
settling in the cañon. The vermilion gleams and roseate hues, blending
with the green and gray tints, are slowly changing to somber brown
above, and black shadows are creeping over them below; and now it is a
dark portal to a region of gloom--the gateway through which we are to
enter on our voyage of exploration to-morrow. What shall we find?

The distance from Flaming Gorge to Beehive Point is nine and
two-thirds miles. Besides, passing through the gorge, the river runs
through Horseshoe and Kingfisher Cañons, separated by short valleys.
The highest point on the walls, at Flaming Gorge, is 1,300 feet above
the river. The east wall, at the apex of Horseshoe Cañon, is about
1,600 feet above the water’s edge, and, from this point, the walls
slope both to the head and foot of the cañon.

Kingfisher Cañon, starting at the water’s edge above, steadily
increases in altitude to 1,200 feet at the foot.

Red Cañon is twenty-five and two-thirds miles long, and the highest
walls are about 2,500 feet.

Brown’s Park is a valley, bounded on either side by a mountain range,
really an expansion of the cañon. The river, through the park, is
thirty-five and a half miles long, but passes through two short cañons,
on its way, where spurs, from the mountains on the south, are thrust
across its course.


FOOTNOTE:

[3] General Ashley, the fur trader, made his last journey into the Far
West before 1835. The man here mentioned must have been someone else,
of the same family name. (_Ed._)




CHAPTER IV THE CANYON OF LODORE


June 8.--We enter the cañon, and, until noon, find a succession of
rapids, over which our boats have to be taken.

Here I must explain our method of proceeding at such places. The
_Emma Dean_ goes in advance; the other boats follow, in obedience to
signals. When we approach a rapid, or what, on other rivers, would
often be called a fall, I stand on deck to examine it, while the
oarsmen back water, and we drift on as slowly as possible. If I can
see a clear chute between the rocks, away we go; but if the channel
is beset entirely across, we signal the other boats, pull to land,
and I walk along the shore for closer examination. If this reveals no
clear channel, hard work begins. We drop the boats to the very head
of the dangerous place, and let them over by lines, or make a portage,
frequently carrying both boats and cargoes over the rocks, or, perhaps,
only the cargoes, if it is safe to let the boats down.

The waves caused by such falls in a river differ much from the waves of
the sea. The water of an ocean wave merely rises and falls; the form
only passes on, and form chases form unceasingly. A body floating on
such waves merely rises and sinks--does not progress unless impelled
by wind or some other power. But here, the water of the wave passes
on, while the form remains. The waters plunge down ten or twenty feet,
to the foot of a fall; spring up again in a great wave; then down and
up, in a series of billows, that gradually disappear in the more quiet
waters below; but these waves are always there, and you can stand above
and count them.

A boat riding such, leaps and plunges along with great velocity. Now,
the difficulty in riding over these falls, when the rocks are out of
the way, is in the first wave at the foot. This will sometimes gather
for a moment, heaping up higher and higher, until it breaks back. If
the boat strikes it the instant after it breaks, she cuts through,
and the mad breaker dashes its spray over the boat, and would wash us
overboard did we not cling tight. If the boat, in going over the falls,
chances to get caught in some side current, and is turned from its
course, so as to strike the wave “broadside on,” and the wave breaks at
the same instant, the boat is capsized. Still, we must cling to her,
for, the water tight compartments acting as buoys, she cannot sink; and
so we go, dragged through the waves, until still waters are reached. We
then right the boat, and climb aboard. We have several such experiences
to-day.

At night, we camp on the right bank, on a little shelving rock, between
the river and the foot of the cliff; and with night comes gloom into
these great depths.

After supper, we sit by our camp fire, made of drift wood caught by the
rocks, and tell stories of wild life; for the men have seen such in the
mountains, or on the plains, and on the battle fields of the South. It
is late before we spread our blankets on the beach.

Lying down, we look up through the cañon, and see that only a little of
the blue heaven appears overhead--a crescent of blue sky, with two or
three constellations peering down upon us.

I do not sleep for some time, as the excitement of the day has not worn
off. Soon I see a bright star, that appears to rest on the very verge
of the cliff overhead to the east. Slowly it seems to float from its
resting place on the rock over the cañon. At first, it appears like
a jewel set on the brink of the cliff; but, as it moves out from the
rock, I almost wonder that it does not fall. In fact, it does seem to
descend in a gentle curve, as though the bright sky in which the stars
are set was spread across the cañon, resting on either wall, and
swayed down by its own weight. The stars appear to be in the cañon. I
soon discover that it is the bright star Vega, so it occurs to me to
designate this part of the wall as the “Cliff of the Harp.”

_June 9._--One of the party suggests that we call this the Cañon of
Lodore, and the name is adopted. Very slowly we make our way, often
climbing on the rocks at the edge of the water for a few hundred yards,
to examine the channel before running it.

During the afternoon, we come to a place where it is necessary to make
a portage. The little boat is landed, and the others are signaled to
come up.

When these rapids or broken falls occur, usually the channel is
suddenly narrowed by rocks which have been tumbled from the cliffs or
have been washed in by lateral streams. Immediately above the narrow,
rocky channel, on one or both sides, there is often a bay of quiet
water, in which we can land with ease. Sometimes the water descends
with a smooth, unruffled surface, from the broad, quiet spread above,
into the narrow, angry channel below, by a semicircular sag. Great
care must be taken not to pass over the brink into this deceptive pit,
but above it we can row with safety. I walk along the bank to examine
the ground, leaving one of my men with a flag to guide the other boats
to the landing-place. I soon see one of the boats make shore all
right and feel no more concern; but a minute after, I hear a shout,
and looking around, see one of the boats shooting down the center of
the sag. It is the _No Name_, with Captain Howland, his brother, and
Goodman. I feel that its going over is inevitable, and run to save the
third boat. A minute more, and she turns the point and heads for the
shore. Then I turn down stream again, and scramble along to look for
the boat that has gone over. The first fall is not great, only ten or
twelve feet, and we often run such; but below, the river tumbles down
again for forty or fifty feet, in a channel filled with dangerous
rocks that break the waves into whirlpools and beat them into foam. I
pass around a great crag just in time to see the boat strike a rock,
and, rebounding from the shock, careen and fill the open compartment
with water. Two of the men lose their oars; she swings around, and
is carried down at a rapid rate, broadside on, for a few yards, and
strikes amidships on another rock with great force, is broken quite in
two, and the men are thrown into the river; the larger part of the boat
floating buoyantly, they soon seize it, and down the river they drift,
past the rocks for a few hundred yards to a second rapid, filled with
huge boulders, where the boat strikes again, and is dashed to pieces,
and the men and fragments are soon carried beyond my sight. Running
along, I turn a bend, and see a man’s head above the water, washed
about in a whirlpool below a great rock.

It is Frank Goodman, clinging to it with a grip upon which life
depends. Coming opposite, I see Howland trying to go to his aid from
an island on which he has been washed. Soon, he comes near enough to
reach Frank with a pole, which he extends toward him. The latter lets
go the rock, grasps the pole, and is pulled ashore. Seneca Howland
is washed farther down the island, and is caught by some rocks, and,
though somewhat bruised, manages to get ashore in safety. This seems a
long time, as I tell it, but it is quickly done.

And now the three men are on an island, with a swift, dangerous river
on either side, and a fall below. The _Emma Dean_ is soon brought
down, and Sumner, starting above as far as possible, pushes out. Right
skillfully he plies the oars, and a few strokes set him on the island
at the proper point. Then they all pull the boat up stream, as far as
they are able, until they stand in water up to their necks. One sits
on a rock, and holds the boat until the others are ready to pull, then
gives the boat a push, clings to it with his hands, and climbs in as
they pull for mainland, which they reach in safety. We are as glad to
shake hands with them as though they had been on a voyage around the
world, and wrecked on a distant coast.

Down the river half a mile we find that the after cabin of the wrecked
boat, with a part of the bottom, ragged and splintered, has floated
against a rock, and stranded. There are valuable articles in the cabin;
but, on examination, we determine that life should not be risked to
save them. Of course, the cargo of rations, instruments, and clothing
is gone.

We return to the boats, and make camp for the night. No sleep comes to
me in all those dark hours. The rations, instruments, and clothing have
been divided among the boats, anticipating such an accident as this;
and we started with duplicates of everything that was deemed necessary
to success. But, in the distribution, there was one exception to this
precaution, and the barometers were all placed in one boat, and they
are lost. There is a possibility that they are in the cabin lodged
against the rock, for that is where they were kept. But, then, how to
reach them! The river is rising. Will they be there to-morrow? Can I go
out to Salt Lake City, and obtain barometers from New York?

_June 10._--I have determined to get the barometers from the wreck, if
they are there. After breakfast, while the men make the portage, I go
down again for another examination. There the cabin lies, only carried
fifty or sixty feet farther on.

Carefully looking over the ground, I am satisfied that it can be
reached with safety, and return to tell the men my conclusion. Sumner
and Dunn volunteer to take the little boat and make the attempt. They
start, reach it, and out come the barometers; and now the boys set up
a shout, and I join them, pleased that they should be as glad to save
the instruments as myself. When the boat lands on our side, I find that
the only things saved from the wreck were the barometers, a package of
thermometers, and a three gallon keg of whisky, which is what the men
were shouting about. They had taken it aboard, unknown to me, and now
I am glad they did, for they think it will do them good, as they are
drenched every day by the melting snow, which runs down the summits of
the Rocky Mountains.

Now we come back to our work at the portage. We find that it is
necessary to carry our rations over the rocks for nearly a mile, and
let our boats down with lines, except at a few points, where they also
must be carried.

Between the river and the eastern wall of the cañon there is an immense
talus of broken rocks. These have tumbled down from the cliffs above,
and constitute a vast pile of huge angular fragments. On these we build
a path for a quarter of a mile, to a small sand beach covered with
drift-wood, through which we clear a way for several hundred yards,
then continue the trail on over another pile of rocks, nearly half a
mile farther down, to a little bay. The greater part of the day is
spent in this work. Then we carry our cargoes down to the beach and
camp for the night.

While the men are building the camp fire, we discover an iron bake
oven, several tin plates, a part of a boat, and many other fragments,
which denote that this is the place where Ashley’s party was wrecked.

_June 11._--This day is spent in carrying our rations down to the
bay--no small task to climb over the rocks with sacks of flour or
bacon. We carry them by stages of about 500 yards each, and when night
comes, and the last sack is on the beach, we are tired, bruised, and
glad to sleep.

_June 12._--To-day we take the boats down to the bay. While at this
work, we discover three sacks of flour from the wrecked boat, that have
lodged in the rocks. We carry them above high-water mark, and leave
them, as our cargoes are already too heavy for the three remaining
boats. We also find two or three oars, which we place with them.

As Ashley and his party were wrecked here, and as we have lost one of
our boats at the same place, we adopt the name Disaster Falls for the
scene of so much peril and loss.

Though some of his companions were drowned, Ashley and one other
survived the wreck, climbed the cañon wall, and found their way across
the Wasatch Mountains to Salt Lake City, living chiefly on berries,
as they wandered through an unknown and difficult country. When they
arrived at Salt Lake, they were almost destitute of clothing, and
nearly starved. The Mormon people gave them food and clothing, and
employed them to work on the foundation of the Temple, until they
had earned sufficient to enable them to leave the country. Of their
subsequent history, I have no knowledge. It is possible they returned
to the scene of the disaster, as a little creek entering the river
below is known as Ashley’s Creek, and it is reported that he built a
cabin and trapped on this river for one or two winters; but this may
have been before the disaster.

_June 13._--Still rocks, rapids, and portages.

We camp to-night at the foot of the left wall on a little patch of
flood-plain covered with a dense growth of box-elders, stopping early
in order to spread the clothing and rations to dry. Everything is wet
and spoiling.

_June 14._--Howland and I climb the wall, on the west side of the
cañon, to an altitude of 2,000 feet. Standing above, and looking to the
west, we discover a large park, five or six miles wide and twenty or
thirty long. The cliff we have climbed forms a wall between the cañon
and the park, for it is 800 feet, down the western side, to the valley.
A creek comes winding down, 1,200 feet above the river, and, entering
the intervening wall by a cañon, it plunges down, more than a thousand
feet, by a broken cascade, into the river below.

_June 15._--To-day, while we make another portage, a peak, standing
on the east wall, is climbed by two of the men, and found to be
2,700 feet above the river. On the east side of the cañon, a vast
amphitheater has been cut, with massive buttresses, and deep, dark
alcoves, in which grow beautiful mosses and delicate ferns, while
springs burst out from the further recesses, and wind, in silver
threads, over floors of sand rock. Here we have three falls in close
succession. At the first, the water is compressed into a very narrow
channel, against the right-hand cliff, and falls fifteen feet in ten
yards; at the second, we have a broad sheet of water, tumbling down
twenty feet over a group of rocks that thrust their dark heads through
the foaming waters. The third is a broken fall, or short, abrupt rapid,
where the water makes a descent of more than twenty feet among huge,
fallen fragments of the cliff. We name the group Triplet Falls.

We make a portage around the first; past the second and third we let
down with lines.

During the afternoon, Dunn and Howland, having returned from their
climb, we run down, three-quarters of a mile, on quiet water, and land
at the head of another fall. On examination, we find that there is an
abrupt plunge of a few feet, and then the river tumbles, for half a
mile, with a descent of a hundred feet, in a channel beset with great
numbers of huge boulders. This stretch of the river is named Hell’s
Half-Mile.

The remaining portion of the day is occupied in making a trail among
the rocks to the foot of the rapid.

_June 16._--Our first work this morning is to carry our cargoes to the
foot of the falls. Then we commence letting down the boats. We take two
of them down in safety, but not without great difficulty; for, where
such a vast body of water, rolling down an inclined plane, is broken
into eddies and cross currents by rocks projecting from the cliffs and
piles of boulders in the channel, it requires excessive labor and much
care to prevent their being dashed against the rocks or breaking away.
Sometimes we are compelled to hold the boat against a rock, above a
chute, until a second line, attached to the stem, is carried to some
point below, and, when all is ready, the first line is detached, and
the boat given to the current, when she shoots down, and the men below
swing her into some eddy.

At such a place, we are letting down the last boat, and, as she is set
free, a wave turns her broadside down the stream, with the stem, to
which the line is attached, from shore, and a little up. They haul on
the line to bring the boat in, but the power of the current, striking
obliquely against her, shoots her out into the middle of the river. The
men have their hands burned with the friction of the passing line; the
boat breaks away, and speeds, with great velocity, down the stream.

The _Maid of the Cañon_ is lost, so it seems; but she drifts some
distance, and swings into an eddy, in which she spins about, until we
arrive with the small boat, and rescue her.

Soon we are on our way again, and stop at the mouth of a little brook,
on the right, for a late dinner. This brook comes down from the distant
mountains, in a deep side cañon. We set out to explore it, but are soon
cut off from farther progress up the gorge by a high rock, over which
the brook glides in a smooth sheet. The rock is not quite vertical, and
the water does not plunge over in a fall.

Then we climb up to the left for an hour, and are a thousand feet
above the river, and six hundred above the brook. Just before us, the
cañon divides, a little stream coming down on the right, and another
on the left, and we can look away up either of these cañons, through
an ascending vista, to cliffs and crags and towers, a mile back, and
two thousand feet overhead. To the right, a dozen gleaming cascades
are seen. Pines and firs stand on the rocks and aspens overhang the
brooks. The rocks below are red and brown, set in deep shadows, but
above, they are buff and vermilion, and stand in the sunshine. The
light above, made more brilliant by the bright-tinted rocks, and the
shadows below more gloomy by the somber hues of the brown walls,
increase the apparent depths of the cañons, and it seems a long way
up to the world of sunshine and open sky, and a long way down to the
bottom of the cañon glooms. Never before have I received such an
impression of the vast heights of these cañon walls; not even at the
Cliff of the Harp, where the very heavens seemed to rest on their
summits.

We sit on some overhanging rocks, and enjoy the scene for a time,
listening to the music of falling waters away up the cañons. We name
this Rippling Brook.

Late in the afternoon we make a short run to the mouth of another
little creek, coming down from the left into an alcove filled with
luxuriant vegetation. Here camp is made with a group of cedars on one
side and a dense mass of box-elders and dead willows on the other.

I go up to explore the alcove. While away a whirlwind comes, scattering
the fire among the dead willows and cedar-spray, and soon there is a
conflagration. The men rush for the boats, leaving all they cannot
readily seize at the moment, and even then they have their clothing
burned and hair singed, and Bradley has his ears scorched. The cook
fills his arms with the mess-kit, and, jumping into a boat, stumbles
and falls, and away go our cooking utensils into the river. Our plates
are gone; our spoons are gone; our knives and forks are gone. “Water
catch ’em; h-e-a-p catch ’em.”

When on the boats, the men are compelled to cut loose, as the flames,
running out on the overhanging willows, are scorching them. Loose on
the stream, they must go down, for the water is too swift to make
headway against it. Just below is a rapid, filled with rocks. On they
shoot, no channel explored, no signal to guide them. Just at this
juncture I chance to see them, but have not yet discovered the fire,
and the strange movements of the men fill me with astonishment. Down
the rocks I clamber, and run to the bank. When I arrive, they have
landed. Then we all go back to the late camp to see if anything left
behind can be saved. Some of the clothing and bedding taken out of the
boats is found, also a few tin cups, basins, and a camp kettle, and
this is all the mess kit we now have. Yet we do just as well as ever.

_June 17._--We run down to the mouth of Yampa River. This has been a
chapter of disasters and toils, notwithstanding which the Cañon of
Lodore was not devoid of scenic interest, even beyond the power of pen
to tell. The roar of its waters was heard unceasingly from the hour we
entered it until we landed here. No quiet in all that time. But its
walls and cliffs, its peaks and crags, its amphitheaters and alcoves,
tell a story of beauty and grandeur that I hear yet--and shall hear.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Cañon of Lodore is twenty and three-quarter miles in length. It
starts abruptly at what we have called the Gate of Lodore, with walls
nearly two thousand feet high, and they are never lower than this until
we reach Alcove Brook, about three miles above the foot. They are
very irregular, standing in vertical or overhanging cliffs in places,
terraced in others, or receding in steep slopes, and are broken by many
side gulches and cañons. The highest point on the wall is at Dunn’s
Cliff, near Triplet Falls, where the rocks reach an altitude of 2,700
feet, but the peaks a little way back rise nearly a thousand feet
higher. Yellow pines, nut pines, firs, and cedars stand in extensive
forests on the Uinta Mountains, and, clinging to the rocks and growing
in the crevices, come down the walls to the water’s edge from Flaming
Gorge to Echo Park. The red sandstones are lichened over; delicate
mosses grow in the moist places, and ferns festoon the walls.




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.[4] I call to Bradley for help. He finds a way by which
he can get to the top of the rock over my head, but cannot reach me.
Then he looks around for some stick or limb of a tree, but finds none.
Then he suggests that he had better help me with the barometer case;
but I fear I cannot hold on to it. The moment is critical. Standing on
my toes, my muscles begin to tremble. It is sixty or eighty feet to the
foot of the precipice. If I lose my hold I shall fall to the bottom,
and then perhaps roll over the bench, and tumble still farther down the
cliff. At this instant it occurs to Bradley to take off his drawers,
which he does, and swings them down to me. I hug close to the rock, let
go with my hand, seize the dangling legs, and, with his assistance, I
am enabled to gain the top.

Then we walk out on a peninsular rock, make the necessary observations
for determining its altitude above camp, and return, finding an easy
way down.

_June 19._--To-day, Howland, Bradley, and I take the _Emma Dean_, and
start up the Yampa River. The stream is much swollen, the current
swift, and we are able to make but slow progress against it. The cañon
in this part of the course of the Yampa is cut through light gray
sandstone. The river is very winding, and the swifter water is usually
found on the outside of the curve, sweeping against vertical cliffs,
often a thousand feet high. In the center of these curves, in many
places, the rock above overhangs the river. On the opposite side, the
walls are broken, craggy, and sloping, and occasionally side cañons
enter. When we have rowed until we are quite tired we stop, and take
advantage of one of these broken places to climb out of the cañon. When
above, we can look up the Yampa for a distance of several miles.

From the summit of the immediate walls of the cañon the rocks rise
gently back for a distance of a mile or two, having the appearance of a
valley, with an irregular, rounded sandstone floor, and in the center
of the valley a deep gorge, which is the cañon. The rim of this valley
on the north is from two thousand five hundred to three thousand feet
above the river; on the south, it is not so high. A number of peaks
stand on this northern rim, the highest of which has received the name
Mount Dawes.

Late in the afternoon we descend to our boat, and return to camp in
Echo Park, gliding down in twenty minutes on the rapid river a distance
of four or five miles, which was only made up stream by several hours’
hard rowing in the morning.

_June 20._--This morning two of the men take me up the Yampa for a
short distance, and I go out to climb. Having reached the top of the
cañon, I walk over long stretches of naked sandstone, crossing gulches
now and then, and by noon reach the summit of Mount Dawes. From this
point I can look away to the north, and see in the dim distance the
Sweetwater and Wind River Mountains, more than a hundred miles away.
To the northwest, the Wasatch Mountains are in view and peaks of
the Uinta. To the east, I can see the western slopes of the Rocky
Mountains, more than a hundred and fifty miles distant.

The air is singularly clear to-day; mountains and buttes stand in sharp
outline, valleys stretch out in the perspective, and I can look down
into the deep cañon gorges and see gleaming waters.

Descending, I cross a ridge near the brink of the Cañon of Lodore,
the highest point of which is nearly as high as the last mentioned
mountain.

Late in the afternoon I stand on this elevated point, and discover a
monument that has evidently been built by human hands. A few plants are
growing in the joints between the rocks, and all are lichened over to
a greater or less extent, showing evidences that the pile was built a
long time ago. This line of peaks, the eastern extension of the Uinta
Mountains, has received the name of Sierra Escalante, in honor of a
Spanish priest, who traveled in this region of country nearly a century
ago; and, perchance, the reverend father built this monument.

Now I return to the river and discharge my gun, as a signal for the
boat to come and take me down to camp. While we have been in the park,
the men have succeeded in catching quite a number of fish, and we have
an abundant supply. This is quite an addition to our _cuisine_.

_June 21._--We float around the long rock, and enter another cañon. The
walls are high and vertical; the cañon is narrow; and the river fills
the whole space below, so that there is no landing-place at the foot of
the cliff. The Green is greatly increased by the Yampa, and we now have
a much larger river. All this volume of water, confined, as it is, in
a narrow channel, and rushing with great velocity, is set eddying and
spinning in whirlpools by projecting rocks and short curves, and the
waters waltz their way through the cañon, making their own rippling,
rushing, roaring music. The cañon is much narrower than any we have
seen. With difficulty we manage our boats. They spin about from side
to side, and we know not where we are going, and find it impossible
to keep them headed down the stream. At first, this causes us great
alarm, but we soon find there is but little danger, and that there is a
general movement of progression down the river, to which this whirling
is but an adjunct; and it is the merry mood of the river to dance
through this deep, dark gorge; and right gaily do we join in the sport.

Soon our revel is interrupted by a cataract; its roaring command is
heeded by all our power at the oars, and we pull against the whirling
current. The _Emma Dean_ is brought up against a cliff, about fifty
feet above the brink of the fall. By vigorously plying the oars on
the side opposite the wall, as if to pull up stream, we can hold her
against the rock. The boats behind are signaled to land where they can.
The _Maid of the Cañon_ is pulled to the left wall, and, by constant
rowing, they can hold her also. The _Sister_ is run into an alcove on
the right, where an eddy is in a dance, and in this she joins. Now my
little boat is held against the wall only by the utmost exertion, and
it is impossible to make headway against the current. On examination, I
find a horizontal crevice in the rock, about ten feet above the water,
and a boat’s length below us, so we let her down to that point. One of
the men clambers into the crevice, in which he can just crawl; we toss
him the line, which he makes fast in the rocks, and now our boat is
tied up. Then I follow into the crevice, and we crawl along a distance
of fifty feet, or more, up stream, and find a broken place, where we
can climb about fifty feet higher. Here we stand on a shelf, that
passes along down stream to a point above the falls, where it is broken
down, and a pile of rocks, over which we can descend to the river, is
lying against the foot of the cliff.

It has been mentioned that one of the boats is on the other side. I
signal for the men to pull her up alongside of the wall, but it cannot
be done; then to cross. This they do, gaining the wall on our side just
above where the _Emma Dean_ is tied.

The third boat is out of sight, whirling in the eddy of a recess.
Looking about, I find another horizontal crevice, along which I crawl
to a point just over the water, where this boat is lying, and, calling
loud and long, I finally succeed in making the crew understand that
I want them to bring the boat down, hugging the wall. This they
accomplish, by taking advantage of every crevice and knob on the face
of the cliff, so that we have the three boats together at a point a
few yards above the falls. Now, by passing a line up on the shelf,
the boats can be let down to the broken rocks below. This we do, and,
making a short portage, our troubles here are over.

Below the falls, the cañon is wider, and there is more or less space
between the river and the walls; but the stream, though wide, is rapid,
and rolls at a fearful rate among the rocks. We proceed with great
caution, and run the large boats altogether by signal.

At night we camp at the mouth of a small creek, which affords us a
good supper of trout. In camp, to-night, we discuss the propriety of
several different names for this cañon. At the falls, encountered at
noon, its characteristics change suddenly. Above, it is very narrow,
and the walls are almost vertical; below, the cañon is much wider, and
more flaring; and, high up on the sides, crags, pinnacles, and towers
are seen. A number of wild, narrow side cañons enter, and the walls
are much broken. After many suggestions, our choice rests between two
names, Whirlpool Cañon and Craggy Cañon, neither of which is strictly
appropriate for both parts of it; but we leave the discussion at this
point, with the understanding that it is best, before finally deciding
on a name, to wait until we see what the cañon is below.

_June 22._--Still making short portages and letting down with lines.
While we are waiting for dinner to-day, I climb a point that gives me a
good view of the river for two or three miles below, and I think we can
make a long run. After dinner, we start; the large boats are to follow
in fifteen minutes, and look out for the signal to land. Into the
middle of the stream we row, and down the rapid river we glide, only
making strokes enough with the oars to guide the boat. What a headlong
ride it is! shooting past rocks and islands! I am soon filled with
exhilaration only experienced before in riding a fleet horse over the
outstretched prairie. One, two, three, four miles we go, rearing and
plunging with the waves, until we wheel to the right into a beautiful
park, and land on an island, where we go into camp.

An hour or two before sunset, I cross to the mainland, and climb a
point of rocks where I can overlook the park and its surroundings. On
the east it is bounded by a high mountain ridge. A semicircle of naked
hills bounds it on the north, west, and south. The broad, deep river
meanders through the park, interrupted by many wooded islands; so I
name it Island Park, and decide to call the cañon above Whirlpool Cañon.

_June 23._--We remain in camp to-day to repair our boats, which have
had hard knocks, and are leaking. Two of the men go out with the
barometer to climb the cliff at the foot of Whirlpool Cañon and measure
the walls; another goes on the mountain to hunt; and Bradley and I
spend the day among the rocks, studying an interesting geological fold
and collecting fossils. Late in the afternoon, the hunter returns,
and brings with him a fine, fat deer, so we give his name to the
mountain--Mount Hawkins. Just before night we move camp to the lower
end of the park, floating down the river about four miles.

_June 24._--Bradley and I start early to climb the mountain ridge to
the east; find its summit to be nearly three thousand feet above camp,
and it has required some labor to scale it; but on its top, what a
view! There is a long spur running out from the Uinta Mountains toward
the south, and the river runs lengthwise through it. Coming down Lodore
and Whirlpool Cañons, we cut through the southern slope of the Uinta
Mountains; and the lower end of this latter cañon runs into the spur,
but, instead of splitting it the whole length, the river wheels to
the right at the foot of Whirlpool Cañon, in a great curve to the
northwest, through Island Park. At the lower end of the park, the river
turns again to the southeast, and cuts into the mountain to its center,
and then makes a detour to the southwest, splitting the mountain ridge
for a distance of six miles nearly to its foot, and then turns out of
it to the left. All this we can see where we stand on the summit of
Mount Hawkins, and so we name the gorge below Split Mountain Cañon.

We are standing three thousand feet above its waters, which are
troubled with billows, and white with foam. Its walls are set with
crags and peaks, and buttressed towers, and overhanging domes. Turning
to the right, the park is below us, with its island groves reflected
by the deep, quiet waters. Rich meadows stretch out on either hand,
to the verge of a sloping plain, that comes down from the distant
mountains. These plains are of almost naked rock, in strange contrast
to the meadows; blue and lilac colored rocks, buff and pink, vermilion
and brown, and all these colors clear and bright. A dozen little
creeks, dry the greater part of the year, run down through the half
circle of exposed formations, radiating from the island-center to the
rim of the basin. Each creek has its system of side streams, and each
side stream has its system of laterals, and, again, these are divided,
so that this outstretched slope of rock is elaborately embossed. Beds
of different colored formations run in parallel bands on either side.
The perspective, modified by the undulations, gives the bands a waved
appearance, and the high colors gleam in the midday sun with the luster
of satin. We are tempted to call this Rainbow Park. Away beyond these
beds are the Uinta and Wasatch Mountains, with their pine forests and
snow fields and naked peaks. Now we turn to the right, and look up
Whirlpool Cañon, a deep gorge, with a river in the bottom--a gloomy
chasm, where mad waves roar; but, at this distance and altitude, the
river is but a rippling brook, and the chasm a narrow cleft. The top
of the mountain on which we stand is a broad, grassy table, and a herd
of deer is feeding in the distance. Walking over to the southeast, we
look down into the valley of White River, and beyond that see the far
distant Rocky Mountains, in mellow, perspective haze, through which
snow fields shine.

_June 25._--This morning, we enter Split Mountain Cañon, sailing in
through a broad, flaring, brilliant gateway. We run two or three rapids
after they have been carefully examined. Then we have a series of six
or eight, over which we are compelled to pass by letting the boats down
with lines. This occupies the entire day, and we camp at night at the
mouth of a great cave.

The cave is at the foot of one of these rapids, and the waves dash in
nearly to its very end. We can pass along a little shelf at the side
until we reach the back part. Swallows have built their nests in the
ceiling, and they wheel in, chattering and scolding at our intrusion;
but their clamor is almost drowned by the noise of the waters. Looking
out of the cave, we can see, far up the river, a line of crags standing
sentinel on either side, and Mount Hawkins in the distance.

_June 26._--The forenoon is spent in getting our large boats over the
rapids. This afternoon, we find three falls in close succession. We
carry our rations over the rocks, and let our boats shoot over the
falls, checking and bringing them to land with lines in the eddies
below. At three o’clock we are all aboard again. Down the river we are
carried by the swift waters at great speed, sheering around a rock now
and then with a timely stroke or two of the oars. At one point, the
river turns from left to right, in a direction at right angles to the
cañon, in a long chute, and strikes the right, where its waters are
heaped up in great billows, that tumble back in breakers. We glide
into the chute before we see the danger, and it is too late to stop.
Two or three hard strokes are given on the right, and we pause for an
instant, expecting to be dashed against the rock. The bow of the boat
leaps high on a great wave; the rebounding waters hurl us back, and the
peril is past. The next moment, the other boats are hurriedly signaled
to land on the left. Accomplishing this, the men walk along the shore,
holding the boats near the bank, and let them drift around. Starting
again, we soon debouch into a beautiful valley, and glide down its
length for ten miles, and camp under a grand old cottonwood. This is
evidently a frequent resort for Indians. Tent poles are lying about,
and the dead embers of late camp fires are seen. On the plains, to the
left, antelope are feeding. Now and then a wolf is seen, and after dark
they make the air resound with their howling.

_June 27._--Now our way is along a gently flowing river, beset with
many islands; groves are seen on either side, and natural meadows,
where herds of antelope are feeding. Here and there we have views of
the distant mountains on the right.

During the afternoon, we make a long detour to the west, and return
again, to a point not more than half a mile from where we started at
noon, and here we camp, for the night, under a high bluff.

_June 28._--To-day, the scenery on either side of the river is much
the same as that of yesterday, except that two or three lakes are
discovered, lying in the valley to the west. After dinner, we run but
a few minutes, when we discover the mouth of the Uinta, a river coming
in from the west. Up the valley of this stream, about forty miles, the
reservation of the Uinta Indians is situated. We propose to go there,
and see if we can replenish our mess kit, and, perhaps, send letters to
friends. We also desire to establish an astronomic station here; and
hence this will be our stopping place for several days.

Some years ago, Captain Berthoud surveyed a stage route from Salt Lake
City to Denver, and this is the place where he crossed the Green
River. His party was encamped here for some time, constructing a ferry
boat and opening a road.

A little above the mouth of the Uinta, on the west side of the Green,
there is a lake of several thousand acres. We carry our boat across the
divide between this and the river, have a row on its quiet waters, and
succeed in shooting several ducks.

_June 29._--A mile and three quarters from here is the junction of the
White River with the Green. The White has its source far to the east,
in the Rocky Mountains. This morning, I cross the Green, and go over
into the valley of the White, and extend my walk several miles along
its winding way, until, at last, I come in sight of some strangely
carved rocks, named by General Hughes, in his journal, “Goblin City.”
Our last winter’s camp was situated a hundred miles above the point
reached to-day. The course of the river, for much of the distance, is
through cañons; but, at some places, valleys are found. Excepting
these little valleys, the region is one of great desolation: arid,
almost treeless, bluffs, hills, ledges of rock, and drifting sands.
Along the course of the Green, however, from the foot of Split Mountain
Cañon to a point some distance below the mouth of the Uinta, there
are many groves of cottonwood, natural meadows, and rich lands. This
arable belt extends some distance up the White River, on the east, and
the Uinta, on the west, and the time must soon come when settlers will
penetrate this country, and make homes.

_June 30._--We have a row up the Uinta to-day, but are not able to make
much headway against the swift current, and hence conclude we must walk
all the way to the agency.

_July 1._--Two days have been employed in obtaining the local time,
taking observations for latitude and longitude, and making excursions
into the adjacent country. This morning, with two of the men, I start
for the Agency. It is a toilsome walk, twenty miles of the distance
being across a sand desert. Occasionally, we have to wade the river,
crossing it back and forth. Toward evening, we cross several beautiful
streams, which are tributaries of the Uinta, and we pass through pine
groves and meadows, arriving just at dusk at the Reservation. Captain
Dodds, the agent, is away, having gone to Salt Lake City, but his
assistants received us very kindly. It is rather pleasant to see a
house once more, and some evidences of civilization, even if it is on
an Indian reservation, several days’ ride from the nearest home of the
white man.

_July 2._--I go, this morning, to visit _Tsau′-wi-at_. This old chief
is but the wreck of a man, and no longer has influence. Looking at
him, you can scarcely realize that he is a man. His skin is shrunken,
wrinkled, and dry, and seems to cover no more than a form of bones.
He is said to be more than a hundred years old. I talk a little with
him, but his conversation is incoherent, though he seems to take pride
in showing me some medals, that must have been given him many years
ago. He has a pipe which, he says, he has used a long time. I offer to
exchange with him, and he seems to be glad to accept; so I add another
to my collection of pipes. His wife, “The Bishop,” as she is called, is
a very garrulous old woman; she exerts a great influence, and is much
revered. She is the only Indian woman I have known to occupy a place in
the council ring. She seems very much younger than her husband, and,
though wrinkled and ugly, is still vigorous. She has much to say to me
concerning the condition of the people, and seems very anxious that
they should learn to cultivate the soil, own farms, and live like white
men. After talking a couple of hours with these old people, I go to see
the farms. They are situated in a very beautiful district, where many
fine streams of water meander across alluvial plains and meadows. These
creeks have quite a fall, and it is very easy to take their waters out
above, and, with them, overflow the lands.

It will be remembered that irrigation is necessary, in this dry
climate, to successful farming. Quite a number of Indians have each
a patch of ground, of two or three acres, on which they are raising
wheat, potatoes, turnips, pumpkins, melons, and other vegetables. Most
of the crops are looking well, and it is rather surprising with what
pride they show us that they are able to cultivate crops like white
men. They are still occupying lodges, and refuse to build houses,
assigning as a reason that when any one dies in a lodge it is always
abandoned, and very often burned with all the effects of the deceased,
and when houses have been built for them they have been treated in
the same way. With their unclean habits, a fixed residence would
doubtless be no pleasant place. This beautiful valley has been the
home of a people of a higher grade of civilization than the present
Utes. Evidences of this are quite abundant; on our way here yesterday
we discovered, in many places along the trail, fragments of pottery;
and wandering about the little farms to-day, I find the foundations
of ancient houses, and mealing stones that were not used by nomadic
people, as they are too heavy to be transported by such tribes, and
are deeply worn. The Indians, seeing that I am interested in these
matters, take pains to show me several other places where these
evidences remain, and tell me that they know nothing about the people
who formerly dwelt here. They further tell me that up in the cañon the
rocks are covered with pictures.

_July 5._--The last two days have been spent in studying the language
of the Indians, and making collections of articles illustrating the
state of arts among them.

Frank Goodman informs me, this morning, that he has concluded not to go
on with the party, saying that he has seen danger enough. It will be
remembered that he was one of the crew on the _No Name_ when she was
wrecked. As our boats are rather heavily loaded, I am content that he
should leave, although he has been a faithful man.

We start early on our return to the boats, taking horses with us from
the reservation, and two Indians, who are to bring the animals back.

       *       *       *       *       *

Whirlpool Cañon is fourteen and a quarter miles in length, the walls
varying from one thousand eight hundred to two thousand four hundred
feet in height. The course of the river through Island Park is nine
miles. Split Mountain Cañon is eight miles long. The highest crags on
its walls reach an altitude above the river of from two thousand five
hundred to two thousand seven hundred feet. In these cañons, cedars
only are found on the walls.

The distance by river from the foot of Split Mountain Cañon to the
mouth of the Uinta is sixty-seven miles. The valley through which it
runs is the home of many antelope, and we have adopted the Indian name,
_Won′sits Yu-av_--Antelope Valley.


FOOTNOTE:

[4] Major Powell had only one arm. (_Ed._)




CHAPTER VI FROM THE MOUTH OF THE UINTA RIVER TO THE JUNCTION OF THE
GRAND AND GREEN


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 our salt meat fare, we gather a quantity and take them aboard.
At noon we stop and cook our 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 our 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.”[5]

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 found 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 our 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 our 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 hours 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 our 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 our
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 mouth, 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 our 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, our 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 our 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 our 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, our way is through a valley, with cottonwood groves on
either side. The river is deep, broad, and quiet.

About two hours from noon camp, we discover an Indian crossing, where
a number of rafts, rudely constructed of logs and bound 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 curious black bluffs on the
right, then two or three short cañons, and then we discover the mouth
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 mouth, 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 clouds 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 our ride to-day 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 our 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′ Tu-weap′_,” 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 our map, and name it “The Butte
of the Cross.”

We continue our 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 our 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 our attention from the river;
then we return to our boats.

Late in the afternoon, the water becomes swift, and our 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 mouth 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.


FOOTNOTE:

[5] Potato tops do make good greens when they are young, but become
poisonous as they mature, like poke shoots. (_Ed._)




CHAPTER VII FROM THE JUNCTION OF THE GRAND AND GREEN TO THE MOUTH OF
THE LITTLE COLORADO


July 18.--The day is spent in obtaining the time, and spreading our
rations, which, we find, are badly injured. The flour has been wet
and dried so many times that it is all musty, and full of hard lumps.
We make a sieve of mosquito netting, and run our flour through it,
losing more than two hundred pounds by the process. Our losses, by the
wrecking of the _No Name_, and by various mishaps since, together with
the amount thrown away to-day, leave us little more than two months’
supplies, and, to make them last thus long, we must be fortunate enough
to lose no more.

We drag our boats on shore, and turn them over to recalk and pitch
them, and Sumner is engaged in repairing barometers. While we are here,
for a day or two, resting, we propose to put everything in the best
shape for a vigorous campaign.

_July 19._--Bradley and I start this morning to climb the left wall
below the junction. The way we have selected is up a gulch. Climbing
for an hour over and among the rocks, we find ourselves in a vast
amphitheater, and our way cut off. We clamber around to the left for
half an hour, until we find that we cannot go up in that direction.
Then we try the rocks around to the right, and discover a narrow shelf,
nearly half a mile long. In some places, this is so wide that we pass
along with ease; in others, it is so narrow and sloping that we are
compelled to lie down and crawl. We can look over the edge of the
shelf, down eight hundred feet, and see the river rolling and plunging
among the rocks. Looking up five hundred feet, to the brink of the
cliff, it seems to blend with the sky. We continue along, until we
come to a point where the wall is again broken down. Up we climb. On
the right, there is a narrow, mural point of rocks, extending toward
the river, two or three hundred feet high, and six or eight hundred
feet long. We come back to where this sets in, and find it cut off
from the main wall by a great crevice. Into this we pass. And now, a
long, narrow rock is between us and the river. The rock itself is split
longitudinally and transversely; and the rains on the surface above
have run down through the crevices, and gathered into channels below,
and then run off into the river. The crevices are usually narrow above,
and, by erosion of the streams, wider below, forming a network of
caves; but each cave having a narrow, winding sky-light up through the
rocks.

We wander among these corridors for an hour or two, but find no place
where the rocks are broken down, so that we can climb up. At last, we
determine to attempt a passage by a crevice, and select one which we
think is wide enough to admit of the passage of our bodies, and yet
narrow enough to climb out by pressing our hands and feet against the
walls. So we climb as men would out of a well. Bradley climbs first; I
hand him the barometer, then climb over his head, and he hands me the
barometer. So we pass each other alternately, until we emerge from the
fissure, out on the summit of the rock. And what a world of grandeur
is spread before us! Below is the cañon, through which the Colorado
runs. We can trace its course for miles, and at points catch glimpses
of the river. From the northwest comes the Green, in a narrow, winding
gorge. From the northeast comes the Grand, through a cañon that seems
bottomless from where we stand. Away to the west are lines of cliffs
and ledges of rock--not such ledges as you may have seen where the
quarryman splits his blocks, but ledges from which the gods might
quarry mountains, that, rolled out on the plain below, would stand a
lofty range; and not such cliffs as you may have seen where the swallow
builds its nest, but cliffs where the soaring eagle is lost to view ere
he reaches the summit.

Between us and the distant cliffs are the strangely carved and
pinnacled rocks of the _Toom′-pin wu-near′ Tu-weap′_. On the summit
of the opposite wall of the cañon are rock forms that we do not
understand. Away to the east a group of eruptive mountains are
seen--the Sierra La Sal. Their slopes are covered with pines, and deep
gulches are flanked with great crags, and snow fields are seen near
the summits. So the mountains are in uniform, green, gray, and silver.
Wherever we look there is but a wilderness of rocks; deep gorges, where
the rivers are lost below cliffs and towers and pinnacles; and ten
thousand strangely carved forms in every direction; and beyond them,
mountains blending with the clouds.

Now we return to camp. While we are eating supper, we very naturally
speak of better fare, as musty bread and spoiled bacon are not
pleasant. Soon I see Hawkins down by the boat, taking up the sextant,
rather a strange proceeding for him, and I question him concerning it.
He replies that he is trying to find the latitude and longitude of the
nearest pie.

_July 20._--This morning, Captain Powell and I go out to climb the west
wall of the cañon, for the purpose of examining the strange rocks seen
yesterday from the other side. Two hours bring us to the top, at a
point between the Green and Colorado, overlooking the junction of the
rivers. A long neck of rock extends toward the mouth of the Grand. Out
on this we walk, crossing a great number of deep crevices. Usually, the
smooth rock slopes down to the fissure on either side. Sometimes it is
an interesting question to us whether the slope is not so steep that we
cannot stand on it. Sometimes, starting down, we are compelled to go
on, and we are not always sure that the crevice is not too wide for a
jump, when we measure it with our eye from above.

Probably the slopes would not be difficult if there was not a fissure
at the lower end; nor would the fissures cause fear if they were but
a few feet deep. It is curious how a little obstacle becomes a great
obstruction, when a misstep would land a man in the bottom of a deep
chasm. Climbing the face of a cliff, a man will walk along a step or
shelf, but a few inches wide, without hesitancy, if the landing is
but ten feet below, should he fall; but if the foot of the cliff is
a thousand feet down, he will crawl. At last our way is cut off by
a fissure so deep and wide that we cannot pass it. Then we turn and
walk back into the country, over the smooth, naked sandstone, without
vegetation, except that here and there dwarf cedars and piñon pines
have found a footing in the huge cracks. There are great basins in
the rock, holding water; some but a few gallons, others hundreds of
barrels.

The day is spent in walking about through these strange scenes. A
narrow gulch is cut into the wall of the main cañon. Follow this up,
and you climb rapidly, as if going up a mountain side, for the gulch
heads but a few hundred or a few thousand yards from the wall. But this
gulch has its side gulches, and, as you come near to the summit, a
group of radiating cañons is found. The spaces drained by these little
cañons are terraced, and are, to a greater or less extent, of the form
of amphitheaters, though some are oblong and some rather irregular.
Usually, the spaces drained by any two of these little side cañons are
separated by a narrow wall, one, two, or three hundred feet high, and
often but a few feet in thickness. Sometimes the wall is broken into a
line of pyramids above, and still remains a wall below. Now, there are
a number of these gulches which break the wall of the main cañon of the
Green, each one having its system of side cañons and amphitheaters,
inclosed by walls, or lines of pinnacles.

The course of the Green, at this point, is approximately at right
angles to that of the Colorado, and on the brink of the latter cañon
we find the same system of terraced and walled glens. The walls, and
pinnacles, and towers are of sandstone, homogeneous in structure, but
not in color, as they show broad bands of red, buff, and gray. This
painting of the rocks, dividing them into sections, increases their
apparent height. In some places, these terraced and walled glens, along
the Colorado, have coalesced with those along the Green; that is, the
intervening walls are broken down. It is very rarely that a loose rock
is seen. The sand is washed off so that the walls, terraces, and slopes
of the glens are all of smooth sandstone.

In the walls themselves, curious caves and channels have been carved.
In some places, there are little stairways up the walls; in others, the
walls present what are known as royal arches; and so we wander through
glens, and among pinnacles, and climb the walls from early morn until
late in the afternoon.

_July 21._--We start this morning on the Colorado. The river is rough,
and bad rapids, in close succession, are found. Two very hard portages
are made during the forenoon. After dinner, in running a rapid, the
_Emma Dean_ is swamped, and we are thrown into the river, we cling to
her, and in the first quiet water below she is righted and bailed out;
but three oars are lost in the mishap. The larger boats land above
the dangerous place, and we make a portage, that occupies all the
afternoon. We camp at night, on the rocks on the left bank, and can
scarcely find room to lie down.

_July 22._--This morning, we continue our journey, though short of
oars. There is no timber growing on the walls within our reach, and
no drift wood along the banks, so we are compelled to go on until
something suitable can be found. A mile and three quarters below, we
find a huge pile of drift wood, among which are some cottonwood logs.
From these we select one which we think the best, and the men are set
at work sawing oars. Our boats are leaking again, from the strains
received in the bad rapids yesterday, so, after dinner, they are turned
over, and some of the men are engaged in calking them.

Captain Powell and I go out to climb the wall to the east, for we can
see dwarf pines above, and it is our purpose to collect the resin which
oozes from them, to use in pitching our boats. We take a barometer with
us, and find that the walls are becoming higher, for now they register
an altitude, above the river, of nearly fifteen hundred feet.

_July 23._--On starting, we come at once to difficult rapids and falls,
that, in many places, are more abrupt than in any of the cañons through
which we have passed, and we decide to name this Cataract Cañon.

From morning until noon, the course of the river is to the west; the
scenery is grand, with rapids and falls below, and walls above, beset
with crags and pinnacles. Just at noon we wheel again to the south, and
go into camp for dinner.

While the cook is preparing it, Bradley, Captain Powell, and myself go
up into a side cañon, that comes in at this point. We enter through a
very narrow passage, having to wade along the course of a little stream
until a cascade interrupts our progress. Then we climb to the right,
for a hundred feet, until we reach a little shelf, along which we
pass, walking with great care, for it is narrow, until we pass around
the fall. Here the gorge widens into a spacious, sky roofed chamber.
In the farther end is a beautiful grove of cottonwoods, and between
us and the cottonwoods the little stream widens out into three clear
lakelets, with bottoms of smooth rock. Beyond the cottonwoods, the
brook tumbles, in a series of white, shining cascades, from heights
that seem immeasurable. Turning around, we can look through the cleft
through which we came, and see the river, with towering walls beyond.
What a chamber for a resting place is this! hewn from the solid rock;
the heavens for a ceiling; cascade fountains within; a grove in the
conservatory, clear lakelets for a refreshing bath, and an outlook
through the doorway on a raging river, with cliffs and mountains beyond.

Our way, after dinner, is through a gorge, grand beyond description.
The walls are nearly vertical; the river broad and swift, but free from
rocks and falls. From the edge of the water to the brink of the cliffs
it is one thousand six hundred to one thousand eight hundred feet. At
this great depth, the river rolls in solemn majesty. The cliffs are
reflected from the more quiet river, and we seem to be in the depths
of the earth, and yet can look down into the waters that reflect a
bottomless abyss. We arrive, early in the afternoon, at the head of
more rapids and falls, but, wearied with past work, we determine to
rest, so go into camp, and the afternoon and evening are spent by the
men in discussing the probabilities of successfully navigating the
river below. The barometric records are examined, to see what descent
we have made since we left the mouth of the Grand, and what descent
since we left the Pacific Railroad, and what fall there yet must be to
the river, ere we reach the end of the great cañons. The conclusion
to which the men arrive seems to be about this: that there are great
descents yet to be made, but, if they are distributed in rapids and
short falls, as they have been heretofore, we will be able to overcome
them. But, may be, we shall come to a fall in these cañons which we
cannot pass, where the walls rise from the water’s edge, so that we
cannot land, and where the water is so swift that we cannot return.
Such places have been found, except that the falls were not so great
but that we could run them with safety. How will it be in the future!
So they speculate over the serious probabilities in jesting mood, and
I hear Sumner remark, “My idea is, we had better go slow, and learn to
peddle.”

_July 24._--We examine the rapids below. Large rocks have fallen from
the walls--great, angular blocks, which have rolled down the talus,
and are strewn along the channel. We are compelled to make three
portages in succession, the distance being less than three-fourths
of a mile, with a fall of seventy-five feet. Among these rocks, in
chutes, whirlpools, and great waves, with rushing breakers and foam,
the water finds its way, still tumbling down. We stop for the night,
only three-fourths of a mile below the last camp. A very hard day’s
work has been done, and at evening I sit on a rock by the edge of the
river, to look at the water, and listen to its roar. Hours ago, deep
shadows had settled into the cañon as the sun passed behind the cliffs.
Now, doubtless, the sun has gone down, for we can see no glint of light
on the crags above. Darkness is coming on. The waves are rolling, with
crests of foam so white they seem almost to give a light of their
own. Near by, a chute of water strikes the foot of a great block of
limestone, fifty feet high, and the waters pile up against it, and roll
back. Where there are sunken rocks, the water heaps up in mounds, or
even in cones. At a point where rocks come very near the surface, the
water forms a chute above, strikes, and is shot up ten or fifteen feet,
and piles back in gentle curves, as in a fountain; and on the river
tumbles and rolls.

_July 25._--Still more rapids and falls to-day. In one, the _Emma Dean_
is caught in a whirlpool, and set spinning about; and it is with great
difficulty we are able to get out of it, with the loss of an oar.
At noon, another is made; and on we go, running some of the rapids,
letting down with lines past others, and making two short portages. We
camp on the right bank, hungry and tired.

_July 26._--We run a short distance this morning, and go into camp, to
make oars and repair boats and barometers. The walls of the cañon have
been steadily increasing in altitude to this point, and now they are
more than two thousand feet high. In many places, they are vertical
from the water’s edge; in others, there is a talus between the river
and the foot of the cliffs, and they are often broken down by side
cañons. It is probable that the river is nearly as low now as it is
ever found. High water mark can be observed forty, fifty, sixty, or a
hundred feet above its present stage. Sometimes logs and drift wood are
seen wedged into the crevice overhead, where floods have carried them.

About ten o’clock, Powell, Bradley, Howland, Hall, and myself start
up a side cañon to the east. We soon come to pools of water; then to
a brook, which is lost in the sands below; and, passing up the brook,
we find the cañon narrows, the walls close in, are often overhanging,
and at last we find ourselves in a vast amphitheater, with a pool of
deep, clear, cold water on the bottom. At first, our way seems cut
off; but we soon discover a little shelf, along which we climb, and,
passing beyond the pool, walk a hundred yards or more, turn to the
right, and find ourselves in another dome-shaped amphitheater. There is
a winding cleft at the top, reaching out to the country above, nearly
two thousand feet overhead. The rounded, basin shaped bottom is filled
with water to the foot of the walls. There is no shelf by which we can
pass around the foot. If we swim across, we meet with a face of rock
hundreds of feet high, over which a little rill glides, and it will be
impossible to climb. So we can go no further up this cañon. Then we
turn back, and examine the walls on either side carefully, to discover,
if possible, some way of climbing out.

In this search, every man takes his own course, and we are scattered.
I almost abandon the idea of getting out, and am engaged in searching
for fossils, when I discover, on the north, a broken place, up which
it may be possible for me to climb. The way, for a distance, is up a
slide of rocks; then up an irregular amphitheater, on points that form
steps and give handhold, and then I reach a little shelf, along which
I walk, and discover a vertical fissure, parallel to the face of the
wall, and reaching to a higher shelf. This fissure is narrow, and I try
to climb up to the bench, which is about forty feet overhead. I have a
barometer on my back, which rather impedes my climbing. The walls of
the fissure are of smooth limestone, offering neither foot nor hand
hold. So I support myself by pressing my back against one wall and my
knees against the other, and, in this way, lift my body, in a shuffling
manner, a few inches at a time, until I have, perhaps, made twenty-five
feet of the distance, when the crevice widens a little, and I cannot
press my knees against the rocks in front with sufficient power to give
me support in lifting my body, and I try to go back. This I cannot
do without falling. So I struggle along sidewise, farther into the
crevice, where it narrows. But by this time my muscles are exhausted,
and I cannot climb longer; so I move still a little farther into the
crevice, where it is so narrow and wedging that I can lie in it, and
there I rest.

Five or ten minutes of this relief, and up once more I go, and reach
the bench above. On this I can walk for a quarter of a mile, till I
come to a place where the wall is again broken down, so that I can
climb up still farther, and in an hour I reach the summit. I hang up my
barometer, to give it a few minutes’ time to settle, and occupy myself
in collecting resin from the piñon pines, which are found in great
abundance. One of the principal objects in making this climb was to get
this resin, for the purpose of smearing our boats; but I have with me
no means of carrying it down. The day is very hot, and my coat was left
in camp, so I have no linings to tear out. Then it occurs to me to cut
off the sleeve of my shirt, tie it up at one end, and in this little
sack I collect about a gallon of pitch.

After taking observations for altitude, I wander back on the rock, for
an hour or two, when suddenly I notice that a storm is coming from
the south. I seek a shelter in the rocks; but when the storm bursts,
it comes down as a flood from the heavens, not with gentle drops at
first, slowly increasing in quantity, but as if suddenly poured out.
I am thoroughly drenched, and almost washed away. It lasts not more
than half an hour, when the clouds sweep by to the north, and I have
sunshine again.

In the meantime, I have discovered a better way of getting down, and
I start for camp, making the greatest haste possible. On reaching the
bottom of the side cañon, I find a thousand streams rolling down the
cliffs on every side, carrying with them red sand; and these all unite
in the cañon below, in one great stream of red mud.

Traveling as fast as I can run, I soon reach the foot of the stream,
for the rain did not reach the lower end of the cañon, and the water
is running down a dry bed of sand; and, although it comes in waves,
several feet high and fifteen or twenty feet in width, the sands soak
it up, and it is lost. But wave follows wave, and rolls along, and is
swallowed up; and still the floods come on from above. I find that I
can travel faster than the stream; so I hasten to camp, and tell the
men there is a river coming down the cañon. We carry our camp equipage
hastily from the bank, to where we think it will be above the water.
Then we stand by, and see the river roll on to join the Colorado. Great
quantities of gypsum are found at the bottom of the gorge; so we name
it Gypsum Cañon.

_July 27._--We have more rapids and falls until noon; then we come to
a narrow place in the cañon, with vertical walls for several hundred
feet, above which are steep steps and sloping rocks back to the
summits. The river is very narrow, and we make our way with great care
and much anxiety, hugging the wall on the left, and carefully examining
the way before us.

Late in the afternoon, we pass to the left, around a sharp point,
which is somewhat broken down near the foot, and discover a flock of
mountain sheep on the rocks, more than a hundred feet above us. We
quickly land in a cove, out of sight, and away go all the hunters with
their guns, for the sheep have not discovered us. Soon, we hear firing,
and those of us who have remained in the boats climb up to see what
success the hunters have had. One sheep has been killed, and two of the
men are still pursuing them. In a few minutes, we hear firing again,
and the next moment down come the flock, clattering over the rocks,
within twenty yards of us. One of the hunters seizes his gun, and
brings a second sheep down, and the next minute the remainder of the
flock is lost behind the rocks. We all give chase; but it is impossible
to follow their tracks over the naked rock, and we see them no more.
Where they went out of this rock walled cañon is a mystery, for we can
see no way of escape. Doubtless, if we could spare the time for the
search, we could find some gulch up which they ran.

We lash our prizes to the deck of one of the boats, and go on for a
short distance; but fresh meat is too tempting for us, and we stop
early to have a feast. And a feast it is! Two fine, young sheep. We
care not for bread, or beans, or dried apples to-night; coffee and
mutton is all we ask.

_July 28._--We make two portages this morning, one of them very long.
During the afternoon we run a chute, more than half a mile in length,
narrow and rapid. This chute has a floor of marble; the rocks dip
in the direction in which we are going, and the fall of the stream
conforms to the inclination of the beds; so we float on water that is
gliding down an inclined plane. At the foot of the chute, the river
turns sharply to the right, and the water rolls up against a rock
which, from above, seems to stand directly athwart its course. As we
approach it, we pull with all our power to the right, but it seems
impossible to avoid being carried headlong against the cliff, and
we are carried up high on the waves--not against the rocks, for the
rebounding water strikes us, and we are beaten back, and pass on with
safety, except that we get a good drenching.

After this, the walls suddenly close in, so that the cañon is narrower
than we have ever known it. The water fills it from wall to wall,
giving us no landing place at the foot of the cliff; the river is
very swift, the cañon is very tortuous, so that we can see but a few
hundred yards ahead; the walls tower over us, often overhanging so as
to almost shut out the light. I stand on deck, watching with intense
anxiety, lest this may lead us into some danger; but we glide along,
with no obstruction, no falls, no rocks, and, in a mile and a half,
emerge from the narrow gorge into a more open and broken portion of the
cañon. Now that it is past, it seems a very simple thing indeed to run
through such a place, but the fear of what might be ahead made a deep
impression on us.

At three o’clock we arrive at the foot of Cataract Cañon. Here a long
cañon valley comes down from the east, and the river turns sharply to
the west in a continuation of the line of the lateral valley. In the
bend on the right, vast numbers of crags, and pinnacles, and tower
shaped rocks are seen. We call it Mille Crag Bend.

And now we wheel into another cañon, on swift water, unobstructed by
rocks. This new cañon is very narrow and very straight, with walls
vertical below and terraced above. The brink of the cliff is 1,300 feet
above the water, where we enter it, but the rocks dip to the west, and,
as the course of the cañon is in that direction, the walls are seen to
slowly decrease in altitude. Floating down this narrow channel, and
looking out through the cañon crevice away in the distance, the river
is seen to turn again to the left, and beyond this point, away many
miles, a great mountain is seen. Still floating down, we see other
mountains, now to the right, now on the left, until a great mountain
range is unfolded to view. We name this Narrow Cañon, and it terminates
at the bend of the river below.

As we go down to this point, we discover the mouth of a stream, which
enters from the right. Into this our little boat is turned. One of
the men in the boat following, seeing what we have done, shouts to
Dunn, asking if it is a trout-stream. Dunn replies, much disgusted,
that it is “a dirty devil,” and by this name the river is to be known
hereafter.[6] The water is exceedingly muddy, and has an unpleasant
odor.

Some of us go out for half a mile, and climb a butte to the north. The
course of the Dirty Devil River can be traced for many miles. It comes
down through a very narrow cañon, and beyond it, to the southwest,
there is a long line of cliffs, with a broad terrace, or bench, between
it and the brink of the cañon, and beyond these cliffs is situated the
range of mountains seen as we came down Narrow Cañon.

Looking up the Colorado, the chasm through which it runs can be seen,
but we cannot look down on its waters. The whole country is a region
of naked rock, of many colors, with cliffs and buttes about us, and
towering mountains in the distance.

_July 29._--We enter a cañon to-day, with low, red walls. A short
distance below its head we discover the ruins of an old building, on
the left wall. There is a narrow plain between the river and the wall
just here, and on the brink of a rock two hundred feet high stands
this old house. Its walls are of stone, laid in mortar, with much
regularity. It was probably built three stories high; the lower story
is yet almost intact; the second is much broken down, and scarcely
anything is left of the third. Great quantities of flint chips are
found on the rocks near by, and many arrow heads, some perfect, others
broken; and fragments of pottery are strewn about in great profusion.
On the face of the cliff, under the building, and along down the
river, for two or three hundred yards, there are many etchings. Two
hours are given to the examination of these interesting ruins, then
we run down fifteen miles farther, and discover another group. The
principal building was situated on the summit of the hill. A part of
the walls are standing, to the height of eight or ten feet, and the
mortar yet remains, in some places. The house was in the shape of an
L, with five rooms on the ground floor, one in the angle, and two in
each extension. In the space in the angle, there is a deep excavation.
From what we know of the people in the province of Tusayan, who are,
doubtless, of the same race as the former inhabitants of these ruins,
we conclude that this was a “kiva,” or underground chamber, in which
their religious ceremonies were performed.

We leave these ruins, and run down two or three miles, and go into camp
about midafternoon. And now I climb the wall and go out into the back
country for a walk.

The sandstone, through which the cañon is cut, is red and homogeneous,
being the same as that through which Labyrinth runs. The smooth, naked
rock stretches out on either side of the river for many miles, but
curiously carved mounds and cones are scattered everywhere, and deep
holes are worn out. Many of these pockets are filled with water. In one
of these holes, or wells, twenty feet deep, I find a tree growing. The
excavation is so narrow that I can step from its brink to a limb on
the tree, and descend to the bottom of the well down a growing ladder.
Many of these pockets are pot-holes, being found in the courses of
little rills, or brooks, that run during the rains which occasionally
fall in this region; and often a few harder rocks, which evidently
assisted in their excavation, can be found in their bottoms. Others,
which are shallower, are not so easily explained. Perhaps they are
found where softer spots existed in the sandstone, places that yielded
more readily to atmospheric degradation, and where the loose sands were
carried away by the winds.

Just before sundown, I attempt to climb a rounded eminence, from
which I hope to obtain a good outlook on the surrounding country.
It is formed of smooth mounds, piled one above another. Up these I
climb, winding here and there, to find a practicable way, until near
the summit they become too steep for me to proceed. I search about,
a few minutes, for a more easy way, when I am surprised at finding
a stairway, evidently cut in the rock by hands. At one place, where
there is a vertical wall of ten or twelve feet, I find an old, ricketty
ladder. It may be that this was a watch-tower of that ancient people
whose homes we have found in ruins. On many of the tributaries of
the Colorado I have heretofore examined their deserted dwellings.
Those that show evidences of being built during the latter part of
their occupation of the country, are, usually, placed on the most
inaccessible cliffs. Sometimes, the mouths of caves have been walled
across, and there are many other evidences to show their anxiety to
secure defensible positions. Probably the nomadic tribes were sweeping
down upon them, and they resorted to these cliffs and cañons for
safety. It is not unreasonable to suppose that this orange mound was
used as a watch-tower. Here I stand, where these now lost people stood
centuries ago, and look over this strange country. I gaze off to great
mountains, in the northwest, which are slowly covered by the night
until they are lost, and then I return to camp. It is no easy task to
find my way down the wall in the darkness, and I clamber about until it
is nearly midnight, before I arrive.

_July 30._--We make good progress to-day, as the water, though
smooth, is swift. Sometimes, the cañon walls are vertical to the top;
sometimes, they are vertical below, and have a mound covered slope
above; in other places, the slope, with its mounds, comes down to the
water’s edge.

Still proceeding on our way, we find the orange sandstone is cut in two
by a group of firm, calcareous strata, and the lower bed is underlaid
by soft gypsiferous shales. Sometimes, the upper homogeneous bed is
a smooth, vertical wall, but usually it is carved with mounds, with
gently meandering valley lines. The lower bed, yielding to gravity, as
the softer shales below work out into the river, breaks into angular
surfaces, often having a columnar appearance. One could almost imagine
that the walls had been carved with a purpose, to represent giant
architectural forms.

In the deep recesses of the walls, we find springs, with mosses and
ferns on the moistened sandstone.

_July 31._--We have a cool, pleasant ride to-day, through this part of
the cañon. The walls are steadily increasing in altitude, the curves
are gentle, and often the river sweeps by an arc of vertical wall,
smooth and unbroken, and then by a curve that is variegated by royal
arches, mossy alcoves, deep, beautiful glens, and painted grottos.

Soon after dinner, we discover the mouth of the San Juan, where we
camp. The remainder of the afternoon is given to hunting some way by
which we can climb out of the cañon; but it ends in failure.

_August 1._--We drop down two miles this morning, and go into camp
again. There is a low, willow covered strip of land along the walls
on the east. Across this we walk, to explore an alcove which we see
from the river. On entering, we find a little grove of box-elder and
cottonwood trees; and, turning to the right, we find ourselves in a
vast chamber, carved out of the rock. At the upper end there is a
clear, deep pool of water, bordered with verdure. Standing by the side
of this, we can see the grove at the entrance. The chamber is more than
two hundred feet high, five hundred feet long, and two hundred feet
wide. Through the ceiling, and on through the rocks for a thousand
feet above, there is a narrow, winding skylight; and this is all carved
out by a little stream, which only runs during the few showers that
fall now and then in this arid country. The waters from the bare rocks
back of the cañon, gathering rapidly into a small channel, have eroded
a deep side cañon, through which they run, until they fall into the
farther end of this chamber. The rock at the ceiling is hard, the rock
below, very soft and friable; and, having cut through the upper harder
portion down into the lower and softer, the stream has washed out these
friable sandstones; and thus the chamber has been excavated.

Here we bring our camp. When “Old Shady” sings us a song at night, we
are pleased to find that this hollow in the rock is filled with sweet
sounds. It was doubtless made for an academy of music by its storm born
architects; so we name it Music Temple.

_August 2._--We still keep our camp in Music Temple to-day.

I wish to obtain a view of the adjacent country, if possible; so, early
in the morning, the men take me across the river, and I pass along by
the foot of the cliff half a mile up stream, and then climb first up
broken ledges, then two or three hundred yards up a smooth, sloping
rock, and then pass out on a narrow ridge. Still, I find I have not
attained an altitude from which I can overlook the region outside of
the cañon; and so I descend into a little gulch, and climb again to a
higher ridge, all the way along naked sandstone, and at last I reach
a point of commanding view. I can look several miles up the San Juan,
and a long distance up the Colorado; and away to the northwest I can
see the Henry Mountains; to the northeast, the Sierra La Sal; to the
southeast, unknown mountains; and to the southwest, the meandering of
the cañon. Then I return to the bank of the river.

We sleep again in Music Temple.

_August 3._--Start early this morning. The features of this cañon
are greatly diversified. Still vertical walls at times. These are
usually found to stand above great curves. The river, sweeping around
these bends, undermines the cliffs in places. Sometimes, the rocks are
overhanging; in other curves, curious, narrow glens are found. Through
these we climb, by a rough stairway, perhaps several hundred feet, to
where a spring bursts out from under an overhanging cliff, and where
cottonwoods and willows stand, while, along the curves of the brooklet,
oaks grow, and other rich vegetation is seen, in marked contrast to the
general appearance of naked rock. We call these Oak Glens.

Other wonderful features are the many side cañons or gorges that we
pass. Sometimes, we stop to explore these for a short distance. In some
places, their walls are much nearer each other above than below, so
that they look somewhat like caves or chambers in the rocks. Usually,
in going up such a gorge, we find beautiful vegetation; but our way is
often cut off by deep basins, or pot-holes, as they are called.

On the walls, and back many miles into the country, numbers of monument
shaped buttes are observed. So we have a curious _ensemble_ of
wonderful features--carved walls, royal arches, glens, alcove gulches,
mounds, and monuments. From which of these features shall we select a
name? We decide to call it Glen Cañon.

Past these towering monuments, past these mounded billows of orange
sandstone, past these oak set glens, past these fern decked alcoves,
past these mural curves, we glide hour after hour, stopping now and
then, as our attention is arrested by some new wonder, until we reach a
point which is historic.

In the year 1776, Father Escalante, a Spanish priest, made an
expedition from Santa Fé to the northwest, crossing the Grand and
Green, and then passing down along the Wasatch Mountains and the
southern plateaus, until he reached the Rio Virgen. His intention was
to cross to the Mission of Monterey; but, from information received
from the Indians, he decided that the route was impracticable. Not
wishing to return to Santa Fé over the circuitous route by which he had
just traveled, he attempted to go by one more direct, and which led
him across the Colorado, at a point known as _El vado de los Padres_.
From the description which we have read, we are enabled to determine
the place. A little stream comes down through a very narrow side cañon
from the west. It was down this that he came, and our boats are lying
at the point where the ford crosses. A well beaten Indian trail is seen
here yet. Between the cliff and the river there is a little meadow.
The ashes of many camp fires are seen, and the bones of numbers of
cattle are bleaching on the grass. For several years the Navajos have
raided on the Mormons that dwell in the valleys to the west, and they
doubtless cross frequently at this ford with their stolen cattle.

_August 4._--To-day the walls grow higher, and the cañon much narrower.
Monuments are still seen on either side; beautiful glens, and alcoves,
and gorges, and side cañons are yet found. After dinner, we find the
river making a sudden turn to the northwest, and the whole character
of the cañon changed. The walls are many hundreds of feet higher, and
the rocks are chiefly variegated shales of beautiful colors--creamy
orange above, then bright vermilion, and below, purple and chocolate
beds, with green and yellow sands. We run four miles through this, in a
direction a little to the west of north; wheel again to the west, and
pass into a portion of the cañon where the characteristics are more
like those above the bend. At night we stop at the mouth of a creek
coming in from the right, and suppose it to be the Paria, which was
described to me last year by a Mormon missionary.

Here the cañon terminates abruptly in a line of cliffs, which stretches
from either side across the river.

_August 5._--With some feeling of anxiety, we enter a new cañon this
morning. We have learned to closely observe the texture of the rock.
In softer strata, we have a quiet river; in harder, we find rapids
and falls. Below us are the limestones and hard sandstones, which
we found in Cataract Cañon. This bodes toil and danger. Besides the
texture of the rocks, there is another condition which affects the
character of the channel, as we have found by experience. Where the
strata are horizontal, the river is often quiet; but, even though it
may be very swift in places, no great obstacles are found. Where the
rocks incline in the direction traveled, the river usually sweeps with
great velocity, but still we have few rapids and falls. But where the
rocks dip up stream, and the river cuts obliquely across the upturned
formations, harder strata above, and softer below, we have rapids and
falls. Into hard rocks, and into rocks dipping up stream, we pass this
morning, and start on a long, rocky, mad rapid. On the left there is a
vertical rock, and down by this cliff and around to the left we glide,
just tossed enough by the waves to appreciate the rate at which we are
traveling.

The cañon is narrow, with vertical walls, which gradually grow higher.
More rapids and falls are found. We come to one with a drop of sixteen
feet, around which we make a portage, and then stop for dinner.

Then a run of two miles, and another portage, long and difficult; then
we camp for the night, on a bank of sand.

_August 6._--Cañon walls, still higher and higher, as we go down
through strata. There is a steep talus at the foot of the cliff, and,
in some places, the upper parts of the walls are terraced.

About ten o’clock we come to a place where the river occupies the
entire channel, and the walls are vertical from the water’s edge.
We see a fall below, and row up against the cliff. There is a little
shelf, or rather a horizontal crevice, a few feet over our heads. One
man stands on the deck of the boat, another climbs on his shoulders,
and then into the crevice. Then we pass him a line, and two or three
others, with myself, follow; then we pass along the crevice until it
becomes a shelf, as the upper part, or roof, is broken off. On this we
walk for a short distance, slowly climbing all the way, until we reach
a point where the shelf is broken off, and we can pass no farther.
Then we go back to the boat, cross the stream, and get some logs that
have lodged in the rocks, bring them to our side, pass them along the
crevice and shelf, and bridge over the broken place. Then we go on to
a point over the falls, but do not obtain a satisfactory view. Then we
climb out to the top of the wall, and walk along to find a point below
the fall, from which it can be seen. From this point it seems possible
to let down our boats, with lines, to the head of the rapids, and then
make a portage; so we return, row down by the side of the cliff, as far
as we dare, and fasten one of the boats to a rock. Then we let down
another boat to the end of its line beyond the first, and the third
boat to the end of its line below the second, which brings it to the
head of the fall, and under an overhanging rock. Then the upper boat,
in obedience to a signal, lets go; we pull in the line, and catch the
nearest boat as it comes, and then the last. Then we make a portage,
and go on.

We go into camp early this afternoon, at a place where it seems
possible to climb out, and the evening is spent in “making observations
for time.”

_August 7._--The almanac tells us that we are to have an eclipse of
the sun to-day, so Captain Powell and myself start early, taking our
instruments with us, for the purpose of making observations on the
eclipse, to determine our longitude. Arriving at the summit, after four
hours’ hard climbing, to attain 2,300 feet in height, we hurriedly
build a platform of rocks, on which to place our instruments, and
quietly wait for the eclipse; but clouds come on, and rain falls, and
sun and moon are obscured.

Much disappointed, we start on our return to camp, but it is late, and
the clouds make the night very dark. Still we feel our way down among
the rocks with great care, for two or three hours, though making slow
progress indeed. At last we lose our way, and dare proceed no farther.
The rain comes down in torrents, and we can find no shelter. We can
neither climb up nor go down, and in the darkness dare not move about,
but sit and “weather out” the night.

_August 8._--Daylight comes, after a long, oh! how long a night, and we
soon reach camp.

After breakfast we start again, and make two portages during the
forenoon.

The limestone of this cañon is often polished, and makes a beautiful
marble. Sometimes the rocks are of many colors--white, gray, pink, and
purple, with saffron tints. It is with very great labor that we make
progress, meeting with many obstructions, running rapids, letting down
our boats with lines, from rock to rock, and sometimes carrying boats
and cargoes around bad places. We camp at night, just after a hard
portage, under an overhanging wall, glad to find shelter from the rain.
We have to search for some time to find a few sticks of driftwood, just
sufficient to boil a cup of coffee.

The water sweeps rapidly in this elbow of river, and has cut its way
under the rock, excavating a vast half circular chamber, which, if
utilized for a theater, would give sitting to fifty thousand people.
Objections might be raised against it, from the fact that, at high
water, the floor is covered with a raging flood.

_August 9._--And now, the scenery is on a grand scale. The walls of the
cañon, 2,500 feet high, are of marble, of many beautiful colors, and
often polished below by the waves, or far up the sides, where showers
have washed the sands over the cliffs.

At one place I have a walk, for more than a mile, on a marble pavement,
all polished and fretted with strange devices, and embossed in a
thousand fantastic patterns. Through a cleft in the wall the sun shines
on this pavement, which gleams in iridescent beauty.

I pass up into the cleft. It is very narrow, with a succession of
pools standing at higher levels as I go back. The water in these pools
is clear and cool, coming down from springs. Then I return to the
pavement, which is but a terrace or bench, over which the river runs
at its flood, but left bare at present. Along the pavement, in many
places, are basins of clear water, in strange contrast to the red mud
of the river. At length I come to the end of this marble terrace, and
take again to the boat.

Riding down a short distance, a beautiful view is presented. The river
turns sharply to the east, and seems inclosed by a wall, set with a
million brilliant gems. What can it mean? Every eye is engaged, every
one wonders. On coming nearer, we find fountains bursting from the
rock, high overhead, and the spray in the sunshine forms the gems which
bedeck the wall. The rocks below the fountain are covered with mosses,
and ferns, and many beautiful flowering plants. We name it Vasey’s
Paradise, in honor of the botanist who traveled with us last year.

We pass many side cañons to-day, that are dark, gloomy passages, back
into the heart of the rocks that form the plateau through which this
cañon is cut.

It rains again this afternoon. Scarcely do the first drops fall, when
little rills run down the walls. As the storm comes on, the little
rills increase in size, until great streams are formed. Although the
walls of the cañon are chiefly limestone, the adjacent country is of
red sandstone; and now the waters, loaded with these sands, come down
in rivers of bright red mud, leaping over the walls in innumerable
cascades. It is plain now how these walls are polished in many places.

At last, the storm ceases, and we go on. We have cut through the
sandstones and limestones met in the upper part of the cañon, and
through one great bed of marble a thousand feet in thickness. In
this, great numbers of caves are hollowed out, and carvings are
seen, which suggest architectural forms, though on a scale so grand
that architectural terms belittle them. As this great bed forms a
distinctive feature of the cañon, we call it Marble Cañon.

It is a peculiar feature of these walls, that many projections are set
out into the river, as if the wall was buttressed for support. The
walls themselves are half a mile high, and these buttresses are on a
corresponding scale, jutting into the river scores of feet. In the
recesses between these projections there are quiet bays, except at the
foot of a rapid, when they are dancing eddies or whirlpools. Sometimes
these alcoves have caves at the back, giving them the appearance of
great depth. Then other caves are seen above, forming vast, dome shaped
chambers. The walls, and buttresses, and chambers are all of marble.

The river is now quiet; the cañon wider. Above, when the river is at
its flood, the waters gorge up, so that the difference between high
and low water mark is often fifty or even seventy feet; but here,
high-water mark is not more than twenty feet above the present stage of
the river. Sometimes there is a narrow flood plain between the water
and the wall.

Here we first discover _mesquite_ shrubs, or small trees, with finely
divided leaves and pods, somewhat like the locust.

_August 10._--Walls still higher; water, swift again. We pass several
broad, ragged cañons on our right, and up through these we catch
glimpses of a forest clad plateau, miles away to the west.

At two o’clock, we reach the mouth of the Colorado Chiquito. This
stream enters through a cañon, on a scale quite as grand as that of
the Colorado itself. It is a very small river, and exceedingly muddy
and salt. I walk up the stream three or four miles, this afternoon,
crossing and recrossing where I can easily wade it. Then I climb
several hundred feet at one place, and can see up the chasm, through
which the river runs, for several miles. On my way back, I kill two
rattlesnakes, and find, on my arrival, that another has been killed
just at camp.

_August 11._--We remain at this point to-day for the purpose of
determining the latitude and longitude, measuring the height of the
walls, drying our rations, and repairing our boats.

Captain Powell, early in the morning, takes a barometer, and goes out
to climb a point between the two rivers.

I walk down the gorge to the left at the foot of the cliff, climb to a
bench, and discover a trail, deeply worn in the rock. Where it crosses
the side gulches, in some places, steps have been cut. I can see no
evidence of its having been traveled for a long time. It was doubtless
a path used by the people who inhabited this country anterior to the
present Indian races--the people who built the communal houses, of
which mention has been made.

I return to camp about three o’clock, and find that some of the men
have discovered ruins, and many fragments of pottery; also, etchings
and hieroglyphics on the rocks.

We find, to-night, on comparing the readings of the barometers, that
the walls are about three thousand feet high--more than half a mile--an
altitude difficult to appreciate from a mere statement of feet. The
ascent is made, not by a slope such as is usually found in climbing a
mountain, but is much more abrupt--often vertical for many hundreds of
feet--so that the impression is that we are at great depths; and we
look up to see but a little patch of sky.

Between the two streams, above the Colorado Chiquito, in some places
the rocks are broken and shelving for six or seven hundred feet; then
there is a sloping terrace, which can only be climbed by finding some
way up a gulch; then, another terrace, and back, still another cliff.
The summit of the cliff is three thousand feet above the river, as our
barometers attest.

Our camp is below the Colorado Chiquito, and on the eastern side of the
cañon.

_August 12._--The rocks above camp are rust colored sandstones and
conglomerates. Some are very hard; others quite soft. These all lie
nearly horizontal, and the beds of softer material have been washed
out, and left the harder, thus forming a series of shelves. Long lines
of these are seen, of varying thickness, from one or two to twenty or
thirty feet, and the spaces between have the same variability. This
morning, I spend two or three hours in climbing among these shelves,
and then I pass above them, and go up a long slope, to the foot of the
cliff, and try to discover some way by which I can reach the top of
the wall; but I find my progress cut off by an amphitheater. Then, I
wander away around to the left, up a little gulch, and along benches,
and climb, from time to time, until I reach an altitude of nearly two
thousand feet, and can get no higher. From this point, I can look
off to the west, up side cañons of the Colorado, and see the edge of
a great plateau, from which streams run down into the Colorado, and
deep gulches, in the escarpment which faces us, continued by cañons,
ragged and flaring, and set with cliffs and towering crags, down to
the river. I can see far up Marble Cañon, to long lines of chocolate
colored cliffs, and above these, the Vermilion Cliffs. I can see, also,
up the Colorado Chiquito, through a very ragged and broken cañon, with
sharp salients set out from the walls on either side, their points
overlapping, so that a huge tooth of marble, on one side, seems to be
set between two teeth on the opposite; and I can also get glimpses of
walls, standing away back from the river, while over my head are mural
escarpments, not possible to be scaled.

Cataract Cañon is forty-one miles long. The walls are 1,300 feet high
at its head, and they gradually increase in altitude to a point about
half-way down, where they are 2,700 feet, and then decrease to 1,300
feet at the foot. Narrow Cañon is nine and a half miles long, with
walls 1,300 feet in height at the head, and coming down to the water at
the foot.

There is very little vegetation in this cañon, or in the adjacent
country. Just at the junction of the Grand and Green, there are a
number of hackberry trees; and along the entire length of Cataract
Cañon, the high-water line is marked by scattered trees of the same
species. A few nut-pines and cedars are found, and occasionally a
red-bud or judas tree; but the general aspect of the cañons, and of the
adjacent country, is that of naked rock.

The distance through Glen Cañon is 149 miles. Its walls vary from two
or three hundred to sixteen hundred feet. Marble Cañon is 65-1/2 miles
long. At its head, it is 200 feet deep, and steadily increases in depth
to its foot, where its walls are 3,500 feet high.


FOOTNOTE:

[6] Powell afterwards renamed it Frémont River. (_Ed._)




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![7]

We can see but a little way into the granite gorge, but it looks
threatening.

After breakfast we enter on the waves. At the very introduction, it
inspires awe. The cañon is narrower than we have ever before seen it;
the water is swifter; there are but few broken rocks in the channel;
but the walls are set, on either side, with pinnacles and crags; and
sharp, angular buttresses, bristling with wind and wave polished
spires, extend far out into the river.

Ledges of rocks jut into the stream, their tops sometimes just below
the surface, sometimes rising few or many feet above; and island
ledges, and island pinnacles, and island towers break the swift course
of the stream into chutes, and eddies, and whirlpools. We soon reach a
place where a creek comes in from the left, and just below, the channel
is choked with boulders, which have washed down this lateral cañon and
formed a dam, over which there is a fall of thirty or forty feet; but
on the boulders we can get foothold, and we make a portage.

Three more such dams are found. Over one we make a portage; at the
other two we find chutes, through which we can run.

As we proceed, the granite rises higher, until nearly a thousand feet
of the lower part of the walls are composed of this rock.

About eleven o’clock we hear a great roar ahead, and approach it very
cautiously. The sound grows louder and louder as we run, and at last
we find ourselves above a long, broken fall, with ledges and pinnacles
of rock obstructing the river. There is a descent of, perhaps,
seventy-five or eighty feet in a third of a mile, and the rushing
waters break into great waves on the rocks, and lash themselves into
a mad, white foam. We can land just above, but there is no foot-hold
on either side by which we can make a portage. It is nearly a thousand
feet to the top of the granite, so it will be impossible to carry our
boats around, though we can climb to the summit up a side gulch, and,
passing along a mile or two, can descend to the river. This we find on
examination; but such a portage would be impracticable for us, and we
must run the rapid, or abandon the river. There is no hesitation. We
step into our boats, push off and away we go, first on smooth but swift
water, then we strike a glassy wave, and ride to its top, down again
into the trough, up again on a higher wave, and down and up on waves
higher and still higher, until we strike one just as it curls back, and
a breaker rolls over our little boat. Still, on we speed, shooting past
projecting rocks, till the little boat is caught in a whirlpool, and
spun around several times. At last we pull out again into the stream,
and now the other boats have passed us. The open compartment of the
_Emma Dean_ is filled with water, and every breaker rolls over us.
Hurled back from a rock, now on this side, now on that, we are carried
into an eddy, in which we struggle for a few minutes, and are then out
again, the breakers still rolling over us. Our boat is unmanageable,
but she cannot sink, and we drift down another hundred yards, through
breakers; how, we scarcely know. We find the other boats have turned
into an eddy at the foot of the fall, and are waiting to catch us as we
come, for the men have seen that our boat is swamped. They push out as
we come near, and pull us in against the wall. We bail our boat, and
on we go again.

The walls, now, are more than a mile in height--a vertical distance
difficult to appreciate. Stand on the south steps of the Treasury
building in Washington, and look down Pennsylvania Avenue to the
Capitol Park, and measure this distance overhead, and imagine cliffs to
extend to that altitude, and you will understand what I mean; or, stand
at Canal Street, in New York, and look up Broadway to Grace Church,
and you have about the distance; or, stand at Lake Street bridge, in
Chicago, and look down to the Central Depot, and you have it again.

A thousand feet of this is up through granite crags, then steep slopes
and perpendicular cliffs rise, one above another, to the summit. The
gorge is black and narrow below, red and gray and flaring above, with
crags and angular projections on the walls, which, cut in many places
by side cañons, seem to be a vast wilderness of rocks. Down in these
grand, gloomy depths we glide, ever listening, for the mad waters keep
up their roar; ever watching, ever peering ahead, for the narrow cañon
is winding, and the river is closed in so that we can see but a few
hundred yards, and what there may be below we know not; but we listen
for falls, and watch for rocks, or stop now and then, in the bay of
a recess, to admire the gigantic scenery. And ever, as we go, there
is some new pinnacle or tower, some crag or peak, some distant view
of the upper plateau, some strange shaped rock, or some deep, narrow
side cañon. Then we come to another broken fall, which appears more
difficult than the one we ran this morning.

A small creek comes in on the right, and the first fall of the water
is over boulders, which have been carried down by this lateral stream.
We land at its mouth, and stop for an hour or two to examine the fall.
It seems possible to let down with lines, at least a part of the way,
from point to point, along the right hand wall. So we make a portage
over the first rocks, and find footing on some boulders below. Then we
let down one of the boats to the end of her line, when she reaches
a corner of the projecting rock, to which one of the men clings, and
steadies her, while I examine an eddy below. I think we can pass the
other boats down by us, and catch them in the eddy. This is soon done
and the men in the boats in the eddy pull us to their side. On the
shore of this little eddy there is about two feet of gravel beach
above the water. Standing on this beach, some of the men take the line
of the little boat and let it drift down against another projecting
angle. Here is a little shelf, on which a man from my boat climbs, and
a shorter line is passed to him, and he fastens the boat to the side of
the cliff. Then the second one is let down, bringing the line of the
third. When the second boat is tied up, the two men standing on the
beach above spring into the last boat, which is pulled up alongside
of ours. Then we let down the boats, for twenty-five or thirty yards,
by walking along the shelf, landing them again in the mouth of a side
cañon. Just below this there is another pile of boulders, over which
we make another portage. From the foot of these rocks we can climb to
another shelf, forty or fifty feet above the water.

On this beach we camp for the night. We find a few sticks, which have
lodged in the rocks. It is raining hard, and we have no shelter, but
kindle a fire and have our supper. We sit on the rocks all night,
wrapped in our ponchos, getting what sleep we can.

_August 15._--This morning we find we can let down for three or four
hundred yards, and it is managed in this way: We pass along the wall,
by climbing from projecting point to point, sometimes near the water’s
edge, at other places fifty or sixty feet above, and hold the boat
with a line, while two men remain aboard, and prevent her from being
dashed against the rocks, and keep the line from getting caught on
the wall. In two hours we have brought them all down, as far as it is
possible, in this way. A few yards below, the river strikes with great
violence against a projecting rock, and our boats are pulled up in a
little bay above. We must now manage to pull out of this, and clear
the point below. The little boat is held by the bow obliquely up the
stream. We jump in, and pull out only a few strokes, and sweep clear of
the dangerous rock. The other boats follow in the same manner, and the
rapid is passed.

It is not easy to describe the labor of such navigation. We must
prevent the waves from dashing the boats against the cliffs. Sometimes,
where the river is swift, we must put a bight of rope about a rock, to
prevent her being snatched from us by a wave; but where the plunge is
too great, or the chute too swift, we must let her leap, and catch her
below, or the undertow will drag her under the falling water, and she
sinks. Where we wish to run her out a little way from shore, through a
channel between rocks, we first throw in little sticks of drift wood,
and watch their course, to see where we must steer, so that she will
pass the channel in safety. And so we hold, and let go, and pull, and
lift, and ward, among rocks, around rocks, and over rocks.

And now we go on through this solemn, mysterious way. The river is very
deep, the cañon very narrow, and still obstructed, so that there is no
steady flow of the stream; but the waters wheel, and roll, and boil,
and we are scarcely able to determine where we can go. Now, the boat
is carried to the right, perhaps close to the wall; again, she is shot
into the stream, and perhaps is dragged over to the other side, where,
caught in a whirlpool, she spins about. We can neither land nor run
as we please. The boats are entirely unmanageable; no order in their
running can be preserved; now one, now another, is ahead, each crew
laboring for its own preservation. In such a place we come to another
rapid. Two of the boats run it perforce. One succeeds in landing, but
there is no foot-hold by which to make a portage, and she is pushed
out again into the stream. The next minute a great reflex wave fills
the open compartment; she is water-logged, and drifts unmanageable.
Breaker after breaker rolls over her, and one capsizes her. The men
are thrown out; but they cling to the boat, and she drifts down some
distance, alongside of us, and we are able to catch her. She is soon
bailed out, and the men are aboard once more; but the oars are lost,
so a pair from the _Emma Dean_ is spared. Then for two miles we find
smooth water.

Clouds are playing in the cañon to-day. Sometimes they roll down in
great masses, filling the gorge with gloom; sometimes they hang above,
from wall to wall, and cover the cañon with a roof of impending storm;
and we can peer long distances up and down this cañon corridor, with
its cloud roof overhead, its walls of black granite, and its river
bright with the sheen of broken waters. Then, a gust of wind sweeps
down a side gulch, and, making a rift in the clouds, reveals the blue
heavens, and a stream of sunlight pours in. Then, the clouds drift away
into the distance, and hang around crags, and peaks, and pinnacles,
and towers, and walls, and cover them with a mantle, that lifts from
time to time, and sets them all in sharp relief. Then, baby clouds
creep out of side cañons, glide around points, and creep back again,
into more distant gorges. Then, clouds, set in strata, across the
cañon, with intervening vista views, to cliffs and rocks beyond. The
clouds are children of the heavens, and when they play among the rocks,
they lift them to the region above.

It rains! Rapidly little rills are formed above, and these soon grow
into brooks, and the brooks grow into creeks, and tumble over the walls
in innumerable cascades, adding their wild music to the roar of the
river. When the rain ceases, the rills, brooks, and creeks run dry. The
waters that fall, during a rain, on these steep rocks, are gathered at
once into the river; they could scarcely be poured in more suddenly, if
some vast spout ran from the clouds to the stream itself. When a storm
bursts over the cañon, a side gulch is dangerous, for a sudden flood
may come, and the inpouring waters will raise the river, so as to hide
the rocks before your eyes.

Early in the afternoon, we discover a stream, entering from the north,
a clear, beautiful creek, coming down through a gorgeous red cañon.
We land, and camp on a sand beach, above its mouth, under a great,
overspreading tree, with willow shaped leaves.

_August 16._--We must dry our rations again to-day, and make oars.

The Colorado is never a clear stream, but for the past three or four
days it has been raining much of the time, and the floods, which are
poured over the walls, have brought down great quantities of mud,
making it exceedingly turbid now. The little affluent, which we have
discovered here, is a clear, beautiful creek, or river, as it would be
termed in this western country, where streams are not abundant. We have
named one stream, away above, in honor of the great chief of the “Bad
Angels,” and, as this is in beautiful contrast to that, we conclude to
name it “Bright Angel.”

Early in the morning, the whole party starts up to explore the Bright
Angel River, with the special purpose of seeking timber, from which to
make oars. A couple of miles above, we find a large pine log, which
has been floated down from the plateau, probably from an altitude of
more than six thousand feet, but not many miles back. On its way, it
must have passed over many cataracts and falls, for it bears scars in
evidence of the rough usage which it has received. The men roll it on
skids, and the work of sawing oars is commenced.

This stream heads away back, under a line of abrupt cliffs, that
terminates the plateau, and tumbles down more than four thousand feet
in the first mile or two of its course; then runs through a deep,
narrow cañon, until it reaches the river.

Late in the afternoon I return, and go up a little gulch, just above
this creek, about two hundred yards from camp, and discover the ruins
of two or three old houses, which were originally of stone, laid in
mortar. Only the foundations are left, but irregular blocks, of which
the houses were constructed, lie scattered about. In one room I find an
old mealing stone, deeply worn, as if it had been much used. A great
deal of pottery is strewn around, and old trails, which in some places
are deeply worn into the rocks, are seen.

It is ever a source of wonder to us why these ancient people sought
such inaccessible places for their homes. They were, doubtless, an
agricultural race, but there are no lands here, of any considerable
extent, that they could have cultivated. To the west of Oraiby, one
of the towns in the “Province of Tusayan,” in Northern Arizona, the
inhabitants have actually built little terraces along the face of
the cliff, where a spring gushes out, and thus made their sites for
gardens. It is possible that the ancient inhabitants of this place made
their agricultural lands in the same way. But why should they seek
such spots? Surely, the country was not so crowded with population as
to demand the utilization of so barren a region. The only solution
of the problem suggested is this: We know that, for a century or two
after the settlement of Mexico, many expeditions were sent into the
country now comprised in Arizona and New Mexico, for the purpose of
bringing the town building people under the dominion of the Spanish
government. Many of their villages were destroyed, and the inhabitants
fled to regions at that time unknown; and there are traditions, among
the people who inhabit the _pueblos_ that still remain, that the cañons
were these unknown lands. Maybe these buildings were erected at that
time; sure it is that they have a much more modern appearance than the
ruins scattered over Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico.
Those old Spanish conquerors had a monstrous greed for gold, and a
wonderful lust for saving souls. Treasures they must have; if not on
earth, why, then, in heaven; and when they failed to find heathen
temples, bedecked with silver, they propitiated Heaven by seizing
the heathen themselves. There is yet extant a copy of a record, made
by a heathen artist, to express his conception of the demands of the
conquerors. In one part of the picture we have a lake, and near by
stands a priest pouring water on the head of a native. On the other
side, a poor Indian has a cord about his throat. Lines run from these
two groups, to a central figure, a man with beard, and full Spanish
panoply. The interpretation of the picture writing is this: “Be
baptized, as this saved heathen; or be hanged, as that damned heathen.”
Doubtless, some of these people preferred a third alternative, and,
rather than be baptized or hanged, they chose to be imprisoned within
these cañon walls.

_August 17._--Our rations are still spoiling; the bacon is so badly
injured that we are compelled to throw it away. By an accident, this
morning, the saleratus is lost overboard. We have now only musty flour
sufficient for ten days, a few dried apples, but plenty of coffee. We
must make all haste possible. If we meet with difficulties, as we have
done in the cañon above, we may be compelled to give up the expedition,
and try to reach the Mormon settlements to the north. Our hopes are
that the worst places are passed, but our barometers are all so much
injured as to be useless, so we have lost our reckoning in altitude,
and know not how much descent the river has yet to make.

The stream is still wild and rapid, and rolls through a narrow channel.
We make but slow progress, often landing against a wall, and climbing
around some point, where we can see the river below. Although very
anxious to advance, we are determined to run with great caution, lest,
by another accident, we lose all our supplies. How precious that little
flour has become! We divide it among the boats, and carefully store it
away, so that it can be lost only by the loss of the boat itself.

We make ten miles and a half, and camp among the rocks, on the right.
We have had rain, from time to time, all day, and have been thoroughly
drenched and chilled; but between showers the sun shines with great
power, and the mercury in our thermometers stands at 115°, so that we
have rapid changes from great extremes, which are very disagreeable.
It is especially cold in the rain to-night. The little canvas we have
is rotten and useless; the rubber ponchos, with which we started from
Green River City, have all been lost; more than half the party is
without hats, and not one of us has an entire suit of clothes, and
we have not a blanket apiece. So we gather drift wood, and build a
fire; but after supper the rain, coming down in torrents, extinguishes
it, and we sit up all night, on the rocks, shivering, and are more
exhausted by the night’s discomfort than by the day’s toil.

_August 18._--The day is employed in making portages, and we advance
but two miles on our journey. Still it rains.

While the men are at work making portages, I climb up the granite
to its summit, and go away back over the rust colored sandstones and
greenish yellow shales, to the foot of the marble wall. I climb so high
that the men and boats are lost in the black depths below, and the
dashing river is a rippling brook; and still there is more cañon above
than below. All about me are interesting geological records. The book
is open, and I can read as I run. All about me are grand views, for the
clouds are playing again in the gorges. But somehow I think of the nine
days’ rations, and the bad river, and the lesson of the rocks, and the
glory of the scene is but half seen.

I push on to an angle, where I hope to get a view of the country
beyond, to see, if possible, what the prospect may be of our soon
running through this plateau, or, at least, of meeting with some
geological change that will let us out of the granite; but, arriving at
the point, I can see below only a labyrinth of deep gorges.

_August 19._--Rain again this morning. Still we are in our granite
prison, and the time is occupied until noon in making a long, bad
portage.

After dinner, in running a rapid, the pioneer boat is upset by a wave.
We are some distance in advance of the larger boats, the river is rough
and swift, and we are unable to land, but cling to the boat, and are
carried down stream, over another rapid. The men in the boats above see
our trouble, but they are caught in whirlpools, and are spinning about
in eddies, and it seems a long time before they come to our relief.
At last they do come; our boat is turned right side up, bailed out;
the oars, which fortunately have floated along in company with us, are
gathered up, and on we go, without even landing.

Soon after the accident the clouds break away, and we have sunshine
again.

Soon we find a little beach, with just room enough to land. Here we
camp, but there is no wood. Across the river, and a little way above,
we see some drift wood lodged in the rocks. So we bring two boat loads
over, build a huge fire, and spread everything to dry. It is the first
cheerful night we have had for a week; a warm, drying fire in the midst
of the camp, and a few bright stars in our patch of heavens overhead.

_August 20._--The characteristics of the cañon change this morning.
The river is broader, the walls more sloping, and composed of black
slates, that stand on edge. These nearly vertical slates are washed out
in places--that is, the softer beds are washed out between the harder,
which are left standing. In this way, curious little alcoves are
formed, in which are quiet bays of water, but on a much smaller scale
than the great bays and buttresses of Marble Cañon.

The river is still rapid, and we stop to let down with lines several
times, but make greater progress as we run ten miles. We camp on the
right bank. Here, on a terrace of trap, we discover another group of
ruins. There was evidently quite a village on this rock. Again we find
mealing stones, and much broken pottery, and up in a little natural
shelf in the rock, back of the ruins, we find a globular basket, that
would hold perhaps a third of a bushel. It is badly broken, and, as I
attempt to take it up, it falls to pieces. There are many beautiful
flint chips, as if this had been the home of an old arrow maker.

_August 21._--We start early this morning, cheered by the prospect
of a fine day, and encouraged, also, by the good run made yesterday.
A quarter of a mile below camp the river turns abruptly to the left,
and between camp and that point is very swift, running down in a long,
broken chute, and piling up against the foot of the cliff, where it
turns to the left. We try to pull across, so as to go down on the
other side, but the waters are swift, and it seems impossible for us
to escape the rock below; but, in pulling across, the bow of the boat
is turned to the farther shore, so that we are swept broadside down,
and are prevented, by the rebounding waters, from striking against the
wall. There we toss about for a few seconds in these billows, and are
carried past the danger. Below, the river turns again to the right,
the cañon is very narrow, and we see in advance but a short distance.
The water, too, is very swift, and there is no landing place. From
around this curve there comes a mad roar, and down we are carried,
with a dizzying velocity, to the head of another rapid. On either
side, high over our heads, there are overhanging granite walls, and
the sharp bends cut off our view, so that a few minutes will carry us
into unknown waters. Away we go, on one long, winding chute. I stand on
deck, supporting myself with a strap, fastened on either side to the
gunwale, and the boat glides rapidly, where the water is smooth, or,
striking a wave, she leaps and bounds like a thing of life, and we have
a wild, exhilarating ride for ten miles, which we make in less than an
hour. The excitement is so great that we forget the danger, until we
hear the roar of the great fall below; then we back on our oars, and
are carried slowly toward its head, and succeed in landing just above,
and find that we have to make another portage. At this we are engaged
until some time after dinner.

Just here we run out of the granite!

Ten miles in less than half a day, and limestone walls below. Good
cheer returns; we forget the storms, and the gloom, and cloud covered
cañons, and the black granite, and the raging river, and push our boats
from shore in great glee.

Though we are out of the granite, the river is still swift, and we
wheel about a point again to the right, and turn, so as to head back
in the direction from which we came, and see the granite again, with
its narrow gorge and black crags; but we meet with no more great falls,
or rapids. Still, we run cautiously, and stop, from time to time,
to examine some places which look bad. Yet, we make ten miles this
afternoon; twenty miles, in all, to-day.

_August 22._--We come to rapids again, this morning, and are occupied
several hours in passing them, letting the boats down, from rock to
rock, with lines, for nearly half a mile, and then have to make a
long portage. While the men are engaged in this, I climb the wall on
the northeast, to a height of about two thousand five hundred feet,
where I can obtain a good view of a long stretch of cañon below. Its
course is to the southwest. The walls seem to rise very abruptly, for
two thousand five hundred or three thousand feet, and then there is a
gently sloping terrace, on each side, for two or three miles, and again
we find cliffs, one thousand five hundred or two thousand feet high.
From the brink of these the plateau stretches back to the north and
south, for a long distance. Away down the cañon, on the right wall,
I can see a group of mountains, some of which appear to stand on the
brink of the cañon. The effect of the terrace is to give the appearance
of a narrow winding valley, with high walls on either side, and a deep,
dark, meandering gorge down its middle. It is impossible, from this
point of view, to determine whether we have granite at the bottom, or
not; but, from geological considerations, I conclude that we shall have
marble walls below.

After my return to the boats, we run another mile, and camp for the
night.

We have made but little over seven miles to-day, and a part of our
flour has been soaked in the river again.

_August 23._--Our way to-day is again through marble walls. Now and
then we pass, for a short distance, through patches of granite, like
hills thrust up into the limestone. At one of these places we have to
make another portage, and, taking advantage of the delay, I go up a
little stream, to the north, wading it all the way, sometimes having to
plunge in to my neck; in other places being compelled to swim across
little basins that have been excavated at the foot of the falls. Along
its course are many cascades and springs gushing out from the rocks on
either side. Sometimes a cottonwood tree grows over the water. I come
to one beautiful fall, of more than a hundred and fifty feet, and
climb around it to the right, on the broken rocks. Still going up, I
find the cañon narrowing very much, being but fifteen or twenty feet
wide; yet the walls rise on either side many hundreds of feet, perhaps
thousands; I can hardly tell.

In some places the stream has not excavated its channel down vertically
through the rocks, but has cut obliquely, so that one wall overhangs
the other. In other places it is cut vertically above and obliquely
below, or obliquely above and vertically below, so that it is
impossible to see out overhead. But I can go no farther. The time which
I estimated it would take to make the portage has almost expired, and
I start back on a round trot, wading in the creek where I must, and
plunging through basins, and find the men waiting for me, and away we
go on the river.

Just after dinner we pass a stream on the right, which leaps into
the Colorado by a direct fall of more than a hundred feet, forming a
beautiful cascade. There is a bed of very hard rock above, thirty or
forty feet in thickness, and much softer beds below. The hard beds
above project many yards beyond the softer, which are washed out,
forming a deep cave behind the fall, and the stream pours through a
narrow crevice above into a deep pool below. Around on the rocks, in
the cave like chamber, are set beautiful ferns, with delicate fronds
and enameled stalks. The little frondlets have their points turned
down, to form spore cases. It has very much the appearance of the
Maiden’s hair fern, but is much larger. This delicate foliage covers
the rocks all about the fountain, and gives the chamber great beauty.
But we have little time to spend in admiration, so on we go.

We make fine progress this afternoon, carried along by a swift river,
and shoot over the rapids, finding no serious obstructions.

The cañon walls, for two thousand five hundred or three thousand feet,
are very regular, rising almost perpendicularly, but here and there set
with narrow steps, and occasionally we can see away above the broad
terrace, to distant cliffs.

We camp to-night in a marble cave, and find, on looking at our
reckoning, we have run twenty-two miles.

_August 24._--The cañon is wider to-day. The walls rise to a vertical
height of nearly three thousand feet. In many places the river runs
under a cliff, in great curves, forming amphitheaters, half dome shaped.

Though the river is rapid, we meet with no serious obstructions, and
run twenty miles. It is curious how anxious we are to make up our
reckoning every time we stop, now that our diet is confined to plenty
of coffee, very little spoiled flour, and very few dried apples. It has
come to be a race for a dinner. Still, we make such fine progress, all
hands are in good cheer, but not a moment of daylight is lost.

_August 25._--We make twelve miles this morning, when we come to
monuments of lava, standing in the river; low rocks, mostly, but some
of them shafts more than a hundred feet high. Going on down, three
or four miles, we find them increasing in number. Great quantities of
cooled lava and many cinder cones are seen on either side; and then we
come to an abrupt cataract. Just over the fall, on the right wall, a
cinder cone, or extinct volcano, with a well defined crater, stands on
the very brink of the cañon. This, doubtless, is the one we saw two or
three days ago. From this volcano vast floods of lava have been poured
down into the river, and a stream of the molten rock has run up the
cañon, three or four miles, and down, we know not how far. Just where
it poured over the cañon wall is the fall. The whole north side, as
far as we can see, is lined with the black basalt, and high up on the
opposite wall are patches of the same material, resting on the benches,
and filling old alcoves and caves, giving to the wall a spotted
appearance.

The rocks are broken in two, along a line which here crosses the river,
and the beds, which we have seen coming down the cañon for the last
thirty miles, have dropped 800 feet, on the lower side of the line,
forming what geologists call a fault. The volcanic cone stands directly
over the fissure thus formed. On the side of the river opposite,
mammoth springs burst out of this crevice, one or two hundred feet
above the river, pouring in a stream quite equal in volume to the
Colorado Chiquito.

This stream seems to be loaded with carbonate of lime, and the water,
evaporating, leaves an incrustation on the rocks; and this process has
been continued for a long time, for extensive deposits are noticed, in
which are basins, with bubbling springs. The water is salty.

We have to make a portage here, which is completed in about three
hours, and on we go.

We have no difficulty as we float along, and I am able to observe
the wonderful phenomena connected with this flood of lava. The cañon
was doubtless filled to a height of twelve or fifteen hundred feet,
perhaps by more than one flood. This would dam the water back; and in
cutting through this great lava bed, a new channel has been formed,
sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other. The cooled lava, being
of firmer texture than the rocks of which the walls are composed,
remains in some places; in others a narrow channel has been cut,
leaving a line of basalt on either side. It is possible that the lava
cooled faster on the sides against the walls, and that the center
ran out; but of this we can only conjecture. There are other places,
where almost the whole of the lava is gone, patches of it only being
seen where it has caught on the walls. As we float down, we can see
that it ran out into side cañons. In some places this basalt has a
fine, columnar structure, often in concentric prisms, and masses of
these concentric columns have coalesced. In some places, when the flow
occurred, the cañon was probably at about the same depth as it is now,
for we can see where the basalt has rolled out on the sands, and, what
seems curious to me, the sands are not melted or metamorphosed to any
appreciable extent. In places the bed of the river is of sandstone or
limestone, in other places of lava, showing that it has all been cut
out again where the sandstones and limestones appear; but there is a
little yet left where the bed is of lava.

What a conflict of water and fire there must have been here! Just
imagine a river of molten rock, running down into a river of melted
snow. What a seething and boiling of the waters; what clouds of steam
rolled into the heavens!

Thirty-five miles to-day. Hurrah!

_August 26._--The cañon walls are steadily becoming higher as we
advance. They are still bold, and nearly vertical up to the terrace.
We still see evidence of the eruption discovered yesterday, but the
thickness of the basalt is decreasing, as we go down the stream; yet
it has been reinforced at points by streams that have come down from
volcanoes standing on the terrace above, but which we cannot see from
the river below.

Since we left the Colorado Chiquito, we have seen no evidences that the
tribe of Indians inhabiting the plateaus on either side ever come down
to the river; but about eleven o’clock to-day we discover an Indian
garden, at the foot of the wall on the right, just where a little
stream, with a narrow flood plain, comes down through a side cañon.
Along the valley, the Indians have planted corn, using the water which
burst out in springs at the foot of the cliff, for irrigation. The corn
is looking quite well, but is not sufficiently advanced to give us
roasting ears; but there are some nice, green squashes. We carry ten or
a dozen of these on board our boats, and hurriedly leave, not willing
to be caught in the robbery, yet excusing ourselves by pleading our
great want. We run down a short distance, to where we feel certain no
Indians can follow; and what a kettle of squash sauce we make! True,
we have no salt with which to season it, but it makes a fine addition
to our unleavened bread and coffee. Never was fruit so sweet as these
stolen squashes.

After dinner we push on again, making fine time, finding many rapids,
but none so bad that we cannot run them with safety, and when we
stop, just at dusk, and foot up our reckoning, we find we have run
thirty-five miles again.

What a supper we make; unleavened bread, green squash sauce, and strong
coffee. We have been for a few days on half rations, but we have no
stint of roast squash.

A few days like this, and we shall be out of prison.

_August 27._--This morning the river takes a more southerly direction.
The dip of the rocks is to the north, and we are rapidly running into
lower formations. Unless our course changes, we shall very soon run
again into the granite. This gives us some anxiety. Now and then the
river turns to the west, and excites hopes that are soon destroyed by
another turn to the south. About nine o’clock we come to the dreaded
rock. It is with no little misgiving that we see the river enter these
black, hard walls. At its very entrance we have to make a portage; then
we have to let down with lines past some ugly rocks. Then we run a mile
or two farther, and then the rapids below can be seen.

About eleven o’clock we come to a place in the river where it seems
much worse than any we have yet met in all its course. A little creek
comes down from the left. We land first on the right, and clamber up
over the granite pinnacles for a mile or two, but can see no way by
which we can let down, and to run it would be sure destruction. After
dinner we cross to examine it on the left. High above the river we can
walk along on the top of the granite, which is broken off at the edge,
and set with crags and pinnacles, so that it is very difficult to get a
view of the river at all. In my eagerness to reach a point where I can
see the roaring fall below, I go too far on the wall, and can neither
advance nor retreat. I stand with one foot on a little projecting
rock, and cling with my hand fixed in a little crevice. Finding I am
caught here, suspended 400 feet above the river, into which I should
fall if my footing fails, I call for help. The men come, and pass me
a line, but I cannot let go of the rock long enough to take hold of
it.[8] Then they bring two or three of the largest oars. All this takes
time which seems very precious to me; but at last they arrive. The
blade of one of the oars is pushed into a little crevice in the rock
beyond me, in such a manner that they can hold me pressed against the
wall. Then another is fixed in such a way that I can step on it, and
thus I am extricated.

Still another hour is spent in examining the river from this side, but
no good view of it is obtained, so now we return to the side that was
first examined, and the afternoon is spent in clambering among the
crags and pinnacles, and carefully scanning the river again. We find
that the lateral streams have washed boulders into the river, so as to
form a dam, over which the water makes a broken fall of eighteen or
twenty feet; then there is a rapid, beset with rocks, for two or three
hundred yards, while, on the other side, points of the wall project
into the river. Then there is a second fall below; how great, we cannot
tell. Then there is a rapid, filled with huge rocks, for one or two
hundred yards. At the bottom of it, from the right wall, a great rock
projects quite half way across the river. It has a sloping surface
extending up stream, and the water, coming down with all the momentum
gained in the falls and rapids above, rolls up this inclined plane many
feet, and tumbles over to the left. I decide that it is possible to
let down over the first fall, then run near the right cliff to a point
just above the second, where we can pull out into a little chute, and,
having run over that in safety, we must pull with all our power across
the stream, to avoid the great rock below. On my return to the boat, I
announce to the men that we are to run it in the morning. Then we cross
the river, and go into camp for the night on some rocks, in the mouth
of the little cañon.

After supper Captain Howland asks to have a talk with me. We walk up
the little creek a short distance, and I soon find that his object is
to remonstrate against my determination to proceed. He thinks that we
had better abandon the river here. Talking with him, I learn that his
brother, William Dunn, and himself have determined to go no farther in
the boats. So we return to camp. Nothing is said to the other men.

For the last two days, our course has not been plotted. I sit down and
do this now, for the purpose of finding where we are by dead reckoning.
It is a clear night, and I take out the sextant to make observation for
latitude, and find that the astronomic determination agrees very nearly
with that of the plot--quite as closely as might be expected, from a
meridian observation on a planet. In a direct line, we must be about
forty-five miles from the mouth of the Rio Virgen. If we can reach that
point, we know that there are settlements up that river about twenty
miles. This forty-five miles, in a direct line, will probably be eighty
or ninety in the meandering line of the river. But then we know that
there is comparatively open country for many miles above the mouth of
the Virgen, which is our point of destination.

As soon as I determine all this, I spread my plot on the sand, and
wake Howland, who is sleeping down by the river, and show him where I
suppose we are, and where several Mormon settlements are situated.

We have another short talk about the morrow, and he lies down again;
but for me there is no sleep. All night long, I pace up and down a
little path, on a few yards of sand beach, along by the river. Is it
wise to go on? I go to the boats again, to look at our rations. I feel
satisfied that we can get over the danger immediately before us; what
there may be below I know not. From our outlook yesterday, on the
cliffs, the cañon seemed to make another great bend to the south, and
this, from our experience heretofore, means more and higher granite
walls. I am not sure that we can climb out of the cañon here, and, when
at the top of the wall, I know enough of the country to be certain that
it is a desert of rock and sand, between this and the nearest Mormon
town, which, on the most direct line, must be seventy-five miles away.
True, the late rains have been favorable to us, should we go out, for
the probabilities are that we shall find water still standing in holes,
and, at one time, I almost conclude to leave the river. But for years I
have been contemplating this trip. To leave the exploration unfinished,
to say that there is a part of the cañon which I cannot explore,
having already almost accomplished it, is more than I am willing to
acknowledge, and I determine to go on.

I wake my brother, and tell him of Howland’s determination, and he
promises to stay with me; then I call up Hawkins, the cook, and he
makes a like promise; then Sumner, and Bradley, and Hall, and they all
agree to go on.

_August 28._--At last daylight comes, and we have breakfast, without a
word being said about the future. The meal is as solemn as a funeral.
After breakfast, I ask the three men if they still think it best to
leave us. The elder Howland thinks it is, and Dunn agrees with him. The
younger Howland tries to persuade them to go on with the party, failing
in which, he decides to go with his brother.

Then we cross the river. The small boat is very much disabled, and
unseaworthy. With the loss of hands, consequent on the departure of the
three men, we shall not be able to run all of the boats, so I decide to
leave my _Emma Dean_.

Two rifles and a shotgun are given to the men who are going out. I ask
them to help themselves to the rations, and take what they think to
be a fair share. This they refuse to do, saying they have no fear but
that they can get something to eat; but Billy, the cook, has a pan of
biscuits prepared for dinner, and these he leaves on a rock.

Before starting, we take our barometers, fossils, the minerals, and
some ammunition from the boat, and leave them on the rocks. We are
going over this place as light as possible. The three men help us lift
our boats over a rock twenty-five or thirty feet high, and let them
down again over the first fall, and now we are all ready to start.
The last thing before leaving, I write a letter to my wife, and give
it to Howland. Sumner gives him his watch, directing that it be sent
to his sister, should he not be heard from again. The records of the
expedition have been kept in duplicate. One set of these is given to
Howland, and now we are ready. For the last time, they entreat us not
to go on, and tell us that it is madness to set out in this place; that
we can never get safely through it; and, further, that the river turns
again to the south into the granite, and a few miles of such rapids
and falls will exhaust our entire stock of rations, and then it will
be too late to climb out. Some tears are shed; it is rather a solemn
parting; each party thinks the other is taking the dangerous course.

My old boat left, I go on board of the _Maid of the Cañon_. The three
men climb a crag, that overhangs the river, to watch us off. The _Maid
of the Cañon_ pushes out. We glide rapidly along the foot of the wall,
just grazing one great rock, then pull out a little into the chute of
the second fall, and plunge over it. The open compartment is filled
when we strike the first wave below, but we cut through it, and then
the men pull with all their power toward the left wall, and swing clear
of the dangerous rock below all right. We are scarcely a minute in
running it, and find that, although it looked bad from above, we have
passed many places that were worse.

The other boat follows without more difficulty. We land at the first
practicable point below and fire our guns, as a signal to the men
above that we have come over in safety. Here we remain a couple of
hours, hoping that they will take the smaller boat and follow us. We
are behind a curve in the cañon, and cannot see up to where we left
them, and so we wait until their coming seems hopeless, and push on.[9]

And now we have a succession of rapids and falls until noon, all of
which we run in safety. Just after dinner we come to another bad place.
A little stream comes in from the left, and below there is a fall, and
still below another fall. Above, the river tumbles down, over and among
the rocks, in whirlpools and great waves, and the waters are lashed
into mad, white foam. We run along the left, above this, and soon see
that we cannot get down on this side, but it seems possible to let down
on the other. We pull up stream again, for two or three hundred yards,
and cross. Now there is a bed of basalt on this northern side of the
cañon, with a bold escarpment, that seems to be a hundred feet high.
We can climb it, and walk along its summit to a point where we are
just at the head of the fall. Here the basalt is broken down again, so
it seems to us, and I direct the men to take a line to the top of the
cliff, and let the boats down along the wall. One man remains in the
boat, to keep her clear of the rocks, and prevent her line from being
caught on the projecting angles. I climb the cliff, and pass along to
a point just over the fall, and descend by broken rocks, and find that
the break of the fall is above the break of the wall, so that we cannot
land; and that still below the river is very bad, and that there is no
possibility of a portage.

Without waiting further to examine and determine what shall be done,
I hasten back to the top of the cliff, to stop the boats from coming
down. When I arrive, I find the men have let one of them down to the
head of the fall. She is in swift water, and they are not able to pull
her back; nor are they able to go on with the line, as it is not long
enough to reach the higher part of the cliff, which is just before
them; so they take a bight around a crag. I send two men back for the
other line. The boat is in very swift water, and Bradley is standing in
the open compartment, holding out his oar to prevent her from striking
against the foot of the cliff. Now she shoots out into the stream, and
up as far as the line will permit, and then, wheeling, drives headlong
against the rock, then out and back again, now straining on the line,
now striking against the rock. As soon as the second line is brought,
we pass it down to him; but his attention is all taken up with his own
situation, and he does not see that we are passing the line to him. I
stand on a projecting rock, waving my hat to gain his attention, for my
voice is drowned by the roaring of the falls.

Just at this moment, I see him take his knife from its sheath, and step
forward to cut the line. He has evidently decided that it is better
to go over with the boat as it is, than to wait for her to be broken
to pieces. As he leans over, the boat sheers again into the stream,
the stern-post breaks away, and she is loose. With perfect composure
Bradley seizes the great scull oar, places it in the stern rowlock, and
pulls with all his power (and he is an athlete) to turn the bow of the
boat down stream, for he wishes to go bow down, rather than to drift
broadside on. One, two strokes he makes, and a third just as she goes
over, and the boat is fairly turned, and she goes down almost beyond
our sight, though we are more than a hundred feet above the river.
Then she comes up again, on a great wave, and down and up, then around
behind some great rocks, and is lost in the mad, white foam below. We
stand frozen with fear, for we see no boat. Bradley is gone, so it
seems. But now, away below, we see something coming out of the waves.
It is evidently a boat. A moment more, and we see Bradley standing on
deck, swinging his hat to show that he is all right. But he is in a
whirlpool. We have the stempost of his boat attached to the line. How
badly she may be disabled we know not.

I direct Sumner and Powell to pass along the cliff, and see if they can
reach him from below. Rhodes, Hall, and myself run to the other boat,
jump aboard, push out, and away we go over the falls. A wave rolls over
us, and our boat is unmanageable. Another great wave strikes us, the
boat rolls over, and tumbles and tosses, I know not how. All I know is
that Bradley is picking us up. We soon have all right again, and row to
the cliff, and wait until Sumner and Powell can come. After a difficult
climb they reach us. We run two or three miles farther, and turn again
to the northwest, continuing until night, when we have run out of the
granite once more.

_August 29._--We start very early this morning. The river still
continues swift, but we have no serious difficulty, and at twelve
o’clock emerge from the Grand Cañon of the Colorado.

We are in a valley now, and low mountains are seen in the distance,
coming to the river below. We recognize this as the Grand Wash.

A few years ago, a party of Mormons set out from St. George, Utah,
taking with them a boat, and came down to the mouth of the Grand Wash,
where they divided, a portion of the party crossing the river to
explore the San Francisco Mountains. Three men--Hamblin, Miller, and
Crosby--taking the boat, went on down the river to Callville, landing a
few miles below the mouth of the Rio Virgen. We have their manuscript
journal with us, and so the stream is comparatively well known.

To-night we camp on the left bank, in a _mesquite_ thicket.

The relief from danger, and the joy of success, are great. When he
who has been chained by wounds to a hospital cot, until his canvas
tent seems like a dungeon cell, until the groans of those who lie
about, tortured with probe and knife, are piled up, a weight of horror
on his ears that he cannot throw off, cannot forget, and until the
stench of festering wounds and anæsthetic drugs has filled the air
with its loathsome burthen, at last goes out into the open field,
what a world he sees! How beautiful the sky; how bright the sunshine;
what “floods of delirious music” pour from the throats of birds; how
sweet the fragrance of earth, and tree, and blossom! The first hour of
convalescent freedom seems rich recompense for all--pain, gloom, terror.

Something like this are the feelings we experience to-night. Ever
before us has been an unknown danger, heavier than immediate peril.
Every waking hour passed in the Grand Cañon has been one of toil. We
have watched with deep solicitude the steady disappearance of our scant
supply of rations, and from time to time have seen the river snatch a
portion of the little left, while we were ahungered. And danger and
toil were endured in those gloomy depths, where oft-times the clouds
hid the sky by day, and but a narrow zone of stars could be seen at
night. Only during the few hours of deep sleep, consequent on hard
labor, has the roar of the waters been hushed. Now the danger is
over; now the toil has ceased; now the gloom has disappeared; now the
firmament is bounded only by the horizon; and what a vast expanse of
constellations can be seen!

The river rolls by us in silent majesty; the quiet of the camp is
sweet; our joy is almost ecstasy. We sit till long after midnight,
talking of the Grand Cañon, talking of home, but chiefly talking of
the three men who left us. Are they wandering in those depths, unable
to find a way out? are they searching over the desert lands above for
water? or are they nearing the settlements?

_August 30._--We run through two or three short, low cañons to-day,
and on emerging from one, we discover a band of Indians in the valley
below. They see us, and scamper away in most eager haste, to hide among
the rocks. Although we land, and call for them to return, not an Indian
can be seen.

Two or three miles farther down, in turning a short bend in the river,
we come upon another camp. So near are we before they can see us that I
can shout to them, and, being able to speak a little of their language,
I tell them we are friends; but they all flee to the rocks, except a
man, a woman, and two children. We land, and talk with them. They are
without lodges, but have built little shelters of boughs, under which
they wallow in the sand. The man is dressed in a hat; the woman in
a string of beads only. At first they are evidently much terrified;
but when I talk to them in their own language, and tell them we are
friends, and inquire after people in the Mormon towns, they are soon
reassured, and beg for tobacco. Of this precious article we have
none to spare. Sumner looks around in the boat for something to give
them, and finds a little piece of colored soap, which they receive
as a valuable present, rather as a thing of beauty than as a useful
commodity, however. They are either unwilling or unable to tell us
anything about the Indians or white people, and so we push off, for we
must lose no time.

We camp at noon under the right bank. And now, as we push out, we are
in great expectancy, for we hope every minute to discover the mouth of
the Rio Virgen.

Soon one of the men exclaims: “Yonder’s an Indian in the river.”
Looking for a few minutes, we certainly do see two or three persons.
The men bend to their oars, and pull toward them. Approaching, we see
that there are three white men and an Indian hauling a seine, and then
we discover that it is just at the mouth of the long sought river.

As we come near, the men seem far less surprised to see us than we
do to see them. They evidently know who we are, and, on talking with
them, they tell us that we have been reported lost long ago, and that
some weeks before, a messenger had been sent from Salt Lake City, with
instructions for them to watch for any fragments or relics of our party
that might drift down the stream.

Our new found friends, Mr. Asa and his two sons, tell us that they are
pioneers of a town that is to be built on the bank.

Eighteen or twenty miles up the valley of the Rio Virgen there are two
Mormon towns, St. Joseph and St. Thomas. To-night we dispatch an Indian
to the last mentioned place, to bring any letters that may be there for
us.

Our arrival here is very opportune. When we look over our store of
supplies, we find about ten pounds of flour, fifteen pounds of dried
apples, but seventy or eighty pounds of coffee.

_August 31._--This afternoon the Indian returns with a letter,
informing us that Bishop Leithhead, of St. Thomas, and two or three
other Mormons are coming down with a wagon, bringing us supplies. They
arrive about sundown. Mr. Asa treats us with great kindness, to the
extent of his ability; but Bishop Leithhead brings in his wagon two
or three dozen melons, and many other little luxuries, and we are
comfortable once more.

_September 1._--This morning Sumner, Bradley, Hawkins, and Hall, taking
on a small supply of rations, start down the Colorado with the boats.
It is their intention to go to Fort Mojave, and perhaps from there
overland to Los Angeles.

Captain Powell and myself return with Bishop Leithhead to St. Thomas.
From St. Thomas we go to Salt Lake City.


FOOTNOTES:

[7] Geologists would call these rocks metamorphic crystalline schists,
with dikes and beds of granite, but we will use the popular name for
the whole series--granite.

[8] It should be remembered that Major Powell had only one arm. (_Ed._)

[9] For the miserable fate of these men see forward under date of
Sept. 19, 1870. (_Ed._)




CHAPTER IX THE RIO VIRGEN AND THE U-IN-KA-RET MOUNTAINS[10]


We have determined to continue the exploration of the cañons of the
Colorado. Our last trip was so hurried, owing to the loss of rations,
and the scientific instruments were so badly injured, that we are not
satisfied with the results obtained, so we shall once more attempt to
pass through the cañons in boats, devoting two or three years to the
trip.

It will not be possible to carry in the boats sufficient supplies for
the party for that length of time, so it is thought best to establish
dépôts of supplies, at intervals of one or two hundred miles along the
river.

Between Gunnison’s Crossing and the foot of the Grand Cañon, we know
of only two points where the river can be reached--one at the Crossing
of the Fathers, and another a few miles below, at the mouth of the
Paria, on a route which has been explored by Jacob Hamblin, a Mormon
missionary. These two points are so near each other that only one of
them can be selected for the purpose above mentioned, and others must
be found. We have been unable, up to this time, to obtain, either from
Indians or white men, any information which will give us a clue to any
other trail to the river.

At the head waters of the Sevier, we are on the summit of a great
water-shed. The Sevier itself flows north, and then westward, into the
lake of the same name. The Rio Virgen, heading near by, flows to the
southwest, into the Colorado, sixty or seventy miles below the Grand
Cañon. The Kanab, also heading near by, runs directly south, into the
very heart of the Grand Cañon. The Paria, also heading near by, runs
a little south of east, and enters the river at the head of Marble
Cañon. To the northeast from this point, other streams, which run into
the Colorado, have their sources, until, forty or fifty miles away,
we reach the southern branches of the Dirty Devil River, the mouth of
which stream is but a short distance below the junction of the Grand
and Green.

The Pouns-a′-gunt Plateau terminates in a point, which is bounded by
a line of beautiful pink cliffs. At the foot of this plateau, on the
west, the Rio Virgen and Sevier Rivers are dovetailed together, as
their minute upper branches interlock. The upper surface of the plateau
inclines to the northeast, so that its waters roll off into the Sevier;
but from the foot of the cliffs, quite around the sharp angle of the
plateau, for a dozen miles, we find numerous springs, whose waters
unite to form the Kanab. But a little farther to the northeast the
springs gather into streams that feed the Paria.

Here, by the upper springs of the Kanab, we make a camp, and from this
point we are to radiate on a series of trips, southwest, south, and
east.

Jacob Hamblin, who has been a missionary among the Indians for more
than twenty years, has collected a number of _Kai′-vav-its_, with
_Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_, their chief, and they are all camped with us.
They assure us that we cannot reach the river; that we cannot make our
way into the depths of the cañon, but promise to show us the springs
and water pockets, which are very scarce in all this region, and to
give us all the information in their power.

Here we fit up a pack train, for our bedding and instruments, and
supplies are to be carried on the backs of mules and ponies.

_September 5, 1870._--The several members of the party are engaged in
general preparation for our trip down to the Grand Cañon.

Taking with me a white man and an Indian, I start on a climb to the
summit of the Pouns-a′-gunt Plateau, which rises above us on the east.
Our way, for a mile or more, is over a great peat bog, that trembles
under our feet, and now and then a mule sinks through the broken turf,
and we are compelled to pull it out with ropes.

Passing the bog, our way is up a gulch, at the foot of the Pink Cliffs,
which form the escarpment, or wall, of the great plateau. Soon we leave
the gulch, and climb a long ridge, which winds around to the right
toward the summit of the great table.

Two hours’ riding, climbing, and clambering brings us near the top.
We look below, and see clouds drifting up from the south, and rolling
tumultuously toward the foot of the cliffs, beneath us. Soon, all
the country below is covered with a sea of vapor--a billowy, raging,
noiseless sea--and as the vapory flood still rolls up from the south,
great waves dash against the foot of the cliffs and roll back; another
tide comes in, is hurled back, and another and another, lashing the
cliffs until the fog rises to the summit, and covers us all.

There is a heavy pine and fir forest above, beset with dead and fallen
timber, and we make our way through the undergrowth to the east.

It rains! The clouds discharge their moisture in torrents, and we make
for ourselves shelters of boughs, which are soon abandoned, and we
stand shivering by a great fire of pine logs and boughs, which we have
kindled, but which the pelting storm half extinguishes.

One, two, three, four hours of the storm, and at last it partially
abates.

During this time our animals, which we have turned loose, have sought
for themselves shelter under the trees, and two of them have wandered
away beyond our sight. I go out to follow their tracks, and come near
to the brink of a ledge of rocks, which, in the fog and mist, I suppose
to be a little ridge, and I look for a way by which I can go down.
Standing just here, there is a rift made in the fog below, by some
current or blast of wind, which reveals an almost bottomless abyss. I
look from the brink of a great precipice of more than two thousand
feet; but, through the mist, the forms below are half obscured, and
all reckoning of distance is lost, and it seems ten thousand feet, ten
miles--any distance the imagination desires to make it.

Catching our animals, we return to the camp. We find that the little
streams which come down from the plateau are greatly swollen, but at
camp they have had no rain. The clouds which drifted up from the south,
striking against the plateau, were lifted up into colder regions, and
discharged their moisture on the summit, and against the sides of the
plateau, but there was no rain in the valley below.

_September 9._--We make a fair start this morning, from the beautiful
meadow at the head of the Kanab, and cross the line of little hills
at the headwaters of the Rio Virgen, and pass, to the south, a pretty
valley, and at ten o’clock come to the brink of a great geographic
bench--a line of cliffs. Behind us are cool springs, green meadows,
and forest clad slopes; below us, stretching to the south, until the
world is lost in blue haze, is a painted desert; not a desert plain,
but a desert of rocks, cut by deep gorges, and relieved by towering
cliffs and pinnacled rocks--naked rocks, brilliant in the sunlight.

By a difficult trail, we make our way down the basaltic ledge, through
which innumerable streams here gather into a little river, running in
a deep cañon. The river runs close to the foot of the cliffs, on the
right hand side, and the trail passes along to the right. At noon we
rest, and our animals feed on luxuriant grass.

Again we start, and make slow progress along a stony way. At night we
camp under an overarching cliff.

_September 10._--Here the river turns to the west, and our way,
properly, is to the south; but we wish to explore the Rio Virgen as far
as possible. The Indians tell us that the cañon narrows gradually, a
few miles below, and that it will be impossible to take our animals
much farther down the river. Early in the morning, I go down to examine
the head of this narrow part. After breakfast, having concluded to
explore the cañon for a few miles on foot, we arrange that the main
party shall climb the cliff, and go around to a point eighteen or
twenty miles below, where, the Indians say, the animals can be taken
down by the river, and three of us set out on foot.

The Indian name of the cañon is _Pa-ru′-nu-weap_, or Roaring Water
Cañon. Between the little river and the foot of the walls, is a dense
growth of willows, vines, and wild rose bushes, and, with great
difficulty, we make our way through this tangled mass. It is not a wide
stream--only twenty or thirty feet across in most places; shallow, but
very swift. After spending some hours in breaking our way through the
mass of vegetation, and climbing rocks here and there, it is determined
to wade along the stream. In some places this is an easy task, but
here and there we come to deep holes, where we have to wade to our
arm pits. Soon we come to places so narrow that the river fills the
entire channel, and we wade perforce. In many places the bottom is a
quicksand, into which we sink, and it is with great difficulty that
we make progress. In some places the holes are so deep that we have
to swim, and our little bundles of blankets and rations are fixed to
a raft made of driftwood, and pushed before us. Now and then there is
a little flood-plain, on which we can walk, and we cross and recross
the stream, and wade along the channel where the water is so swift as
to almost carry us off our feet, and we are in danger every moment of
being swept down, until night comes on. We estimate we have traveled
eight miles to-day. We find a little patch of flood-plain, on which
there is a huge pile of driftwood and a clump of box-elders, and near
by a great stream, which bursts from the rocks--a mammoth spring.

We soon have a huge fire, our clothes are spread to dry, we make a cup
of coffee, take out our bread and cheese and dried beef, and enjoy a
hearty supper.

The cañon here is about twelve hundred feet deep. It has been very
narrow and winding all the way down to this point.

_September 11._--Wading again this morning; sinking in the quicksand,
swimming the deep waters, and making slow and painful progress where
the waters are swift, and the bed of the stream rocky.

The cañon is steadily becoming deeper, and, in many places, very
narrow--only twenty or thirty feet wide below, and in some places no
wider, and even narrower, for hundreds of feet overhead. There are
places where the river, in sweeping by curves, has cut far under the
rocks, but still preserving its narrow channel, so that there is an
overhanging wall on one side and an inclined wall on the other. In
places a few hundred feet above, it becomes vertical again, and thus
the view of the sky is entirely closed. Everywhere this deep passage
is dark and gloomy, and resounds with the noise of rapid waters. At
noon we are in a cañon 2,500 feet deep, and we come to a fall where
the walls are broken down, and huge rocks beset the channel, on which
we obtain a foothold to reach a level two hundred feet below. Here the
cañon is again wider, and we find a flood-plain, along which we can
walk, now on this, and now on that side of the stream. Gradually the
cañon widens; steep rapids, cascades, and cataracts are found along the
river, but we wade only when it is necessary to cross. We make progress
with very great labor, having to climb over piles of broken rocks.

Late in the afternoon, we come to a little clearing in the valley, and
see other signs of civilization, and by sundown arrive at the Mormon
town of Schunesburg; and here we meet the train, and feast on melons
and grapes.

_September 12._--Our course, for the last two days, through
_Pa-ru′-nu-weap_ Cañon, was directly to the west. Another stream comes
down from the north, and unites just here at Schunesburg with the
main branch of the Rio Virgen. We determine to spend a day in the
exploration of this stream. The Indians call the cañon, through which
it runs, _Mu-koon′-tu-weap_, or Straight Cañon. Entering this, we have
to wade up stream; often the water fills the entire channel, and,
although we travel many miles, we find no flood-plain, talus, or broken
piles of rock at the foot of the cliff. The walls have smooth, plain
faces, and are everywhere very regular and vertical for a thousand feet
or more, where they seem to break back in shelving slopes to higher
altitudes; and everywhere, as we go along, we find springs bursting out
at the foot of the walls, and, passing these, the river above becomes
steadily smaller; the great body of water, which runs below, bursts out
from beneath this great bed of red sandstone; as we go up the cañon,
it comes to be but a creek, and then a brook. On the western wall of
the cañon stand some buttes, towers, and high pinnacled rocks. Going
up the cañon, we gain glimpses of them, here and there. Last summer,
after our trip through the cañons of the Colorado, on our way from the
mouth of the Virgen to Salt Lake City, these were seen as conspicuous
landmarks, from a distance, away to the southwest, of sixty or seventy
miles. These tower rocks are known as the Temples of the Virgen.

Having explored this cañon nearly to its head, we return to
Schunesburg, arriving quite late at night.

Sitting in camp this evening, _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_, the chief of the
_Kai′-vav-its_, who is one of our party, tells us there is a tradition
among the tribes of this country, that many years ago a great light
was seen some-where in this region by the _Pa-ru′-sha-pats_, who lived
to the southwest, and that they supposed it to be a signal, kindled
to warn them of the approach of the _Navajos_, who live beyond the
Colorado River to the east. Then other signal fires were kindled on
the Pine Valley Mountain, Santa Clara Mountains, and U-in-ka-ret
Mountains, so that all the tribes of Northern Arizona, Southern Utah,
Southern Nevada, and Southern California were warned of the approaching
danger; but when the _Pa-ru′-sha-pats_ came nearer, they discovered
that it was a fire on one of the great Temples; and then they knew that
the fire was not kindled by men, for no human being could scale the
rocks. The _Tu′-mu-ur-ru-gwait′-si-gaip_, or Rock Rovers, had kindled
a fire to deceive the people. In the Indian language this is called
_Tu′-mu-ur-ru-gwait′-si-gaip Tu-weap′_, or Rock Rovers’ Land.

_September 13._--We start very early this morning, for we have a long
day’s travel before us. Our way is across the Rio Virgen to the south.
Coming to the bank of the stream here, we find a strange metamorphosis.
The streams we have seen above, running in narrow channels, leaping
and plunging over the rocks, raging and roaring in their course, are
here united, and spread in a thin sheet several hundred yards wide, and
only a few inches deep, but running over a bed of quicksand. Crossing
the stream, our trail leads up a narrow cañon, not very deep, and then
among the hills of golden, red, and purple shales and marls. Climbing
out of the valley of the Rio Virgen, we pass through a forest of dwarf
cedars, and come out at the foot of the Vermilion Cliffs. All day we
follow this Indian trail toward the east, and at night camp at a great
spring, known to the Indians as Yellow Rock Spring, but to the Mormons
as Pipe Spring; and near by there is a cabin in which some Mormon
herders find shelter. Pipe Spring is a point just across the Utah line
in Arizona, and we suppose it to be about sixty miles from the river.
Here the Mormons design to build a fort another year, as an outpost for
protection against the Indians.

Here we discharge a number of the Indians, but take two with us for
the purpose of showing us the springs, for they are very scarce,
very small, and not easily found. Half a dozen are not known in a
district of country large enough to make as many good sized counties
in Illinois. There are no running streams, and these springs and
water-pockets--that is, holes in the rocks, which hold water from
shower to shower--are our only dependence for this element.

Starting, we leave behind a long line of cliffs, many hundred feet
high, composed of orange and vermilion sandstones. I have named them
“Vermilion Cliffs.” When we are out a few miles, I look back, and see
the morning sun shining in splendor on their painted faces; the salient
angles are on fire, and the retreating angles are buried in shade, and
I gaze on them until my vision dreams, and the cliffs appear a long
bank of purple clouds, piled from the horizon high into the heavens.
At noon we pass along a ledge of chocolate cliffs, and, taking out our
sandwiches, we make a dinner as we ride along.

Yesterday, our Indians discussed for hours the route which we
should take. There is one way, farther by ten or twelve miles, with
sure water; another shorter, where water is found sometimes; their
conclusion was that water would be found now; and this is the way we
go, yet all day long we are anxious about it. To be out two days, with
only the water that can be carried in two small kegs, is to have our
animals suffer greatly. At five o’clock we come to the spot, and there
is a huge water-pocket, containing several barrels. What a relief! Here
we camp for the night.

_September 15._--Up at day-break, for it is a long day’s march to the
next water. They say we must “run very hard” to reach it by dark.

Our course is to the south. From Pipe Spring we can see a mountain, and
I recognize it as the one seen last summer from a cliff overlooking the
Grand Cañon; and I wish to reach the river just behind the mountain.
There are Indians living in the group, of which it is the highest, whom
I wish to visit on the way. These mountains are of volcanic origin,
and we soon come to ground that is covered with fragments of lava. The
way becomes very difficult. We have to cross deep ravines, the heads
of cañons that run into the Grand Cañon. It is curious now to observe
the knowledge of our Indians. There is not a trail but what they know;
every gulch and every rock seems familiar. I have prided myself on
being able to grasp and retain in my mind the topography of a country;
but these Indians put me to shame. My knowledge is only general,
embracing the more important features of a region that remains as a map
engraved on my mind; but theirs is particular. They know every rock and
every ledge, every gulch and cañon, and just where to wind among these
to find a pass; and their knowledge is unerring. They cannot describe a
country to you, but they can tell you all the particulars of a route.

I have but one pony for the two, and they were to ride “turn about”;
but _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_, the chief, rides, and _Shuts_, the one-eyed,
bare-legged, merry-faced pigmy, walks, and points the way with a
slender cane; then leaps and bounds by the shortest way, and sits down
on a rock and waits demurely until we come, always meeting us with a
jest, his face a rich mine of sunny smiles.

At dusk we reach the water-pocket. It is in a deep gorge, on the flank
of this great mountain. During the rainy season the water rolls down
the mountain side, plunging over precipices, and excavates a deep basin
in the solid rock below. This basin, hidden from the sun, holds water
the year round.

_September 16._--This morning, while the men are packing the animals,
I climb a little mountain near camp, to obtain a view of the country.
It is a huge pile of volcanic scoria, loose and light as cinders from a
forge, which give way under my feet, and I climb with great labor; but
reaching the summit, and looking to the southeast, I see once more the
labyrinth of deep gorges that flank the Grand Cañon; in the multitude,
I cannot determine whether it be in view or not. The memories of grand
and awful months spent in their deep, gloomy solitudes come up, and I
live that life over again for a time.

I supposed, before starting, that I could get a good view of the great
mountain from this point; but it is like climbing a chair to look at a
castle. I wish to discover some way by which it can be ascended, as it
is my intention to go to the summit before I return to the settlements.
There is a cliff near the summit, and I do not see the way yet. Now
down I go, sliding on the cinders, making them rattle and clang.

The Indians say we are to have a short ride to-day, and that we will
reach an Indian village, situated by a good spring. Our way is across
the spurs that put out from the great mountain, as we pass it to the
left.

Up and down we go, across deep ravines, and the fragments of lava clank
under our horses’ feet; now among cedars, now among pines, and now
across mountain side glades. At one o’clock we descend into a lovely
valley, with a carpet of waving grass; sometimes there is a little
water in the upper end of it, and, during some seasons, the Indians
we wish to find are encamped here. _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ rides on to
find them, and to say we are friends, otherwise they would run away,
or propose to fight us, should we come without notice. Soon we see
_Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ riding at full speed, and hear him shouting at the
top of his voice, and away in the distance are two Indians, scampering
up the mountain side. One stops; the other still goes on, and is soon
lost to view. We ride up, and find _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ talking with
the one who had stopped. It is one of the ladies resident in these
mountain glades; she is evidently paying taxes, Godiva like. She tells
us that her people are at the spring; that it is only two hours’ ride;
that her good master has gone on to tell them we are coming, and that
she is harvesting seeds.

We sit down and eat our luncheon, and share our biscuit with the woman
of the mountains; then on we go, over a divide between two rounded
peaks. I send the party on to the village, and climb the peak on the
left, riding my horse to the upper limit of trees, and then tugging up
afoot. From this point I can see the Grand Cañon, and know where I
am. I can see the Indian village, too, in a grassy valley, embosomed
in the mountains, the smoke curling up from their fires; my men are
turning out their horses, and a group of natives stand around. Down the
mountain I go, and reach camp at sunset.

After supper we put some cedar boughs on the fire, the dusky villagers
sit around, and we have a smoke and a talk. I explain the object of
my visit, and assure them of my friendly intentions. Then I ask them
about a way down into the cañon. They tell me that years ago, a way
was discovered by which parties could go down, but that no one has
attempted it for a long time; that it is a very difficult and very
dangerous undertaking to reach the “Big Water.” Then I inquire about
the _Shi′-vwits_, a tribe that lives about the springs on the mountain
sides and cañon cliffs to the southwest. They say that their village is
now about thirty miles away, and promise to send a messenger for them
to-morrow morning.

Having finished our business for the evening, I ask if there is a
_tu-gwi′-na-gunt_ in camp: that is, if there is any one present who
is skilled in relating their mythology. _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ says
_To-mor′-ro-un-ti-kai_, the chief of these Indians, is a very noted man
for his skill in this matter; but they both object, by saying that the
season for _tu-gwi′-nai_ has not yet arrived. But I had anticipated
this, and soon some members of the party come with pipes and tobacco,
a large kettle of coffee, and a tray of biscuits, and, after sundry
ceremonies of pipe lighting and smoking, we all feast, and, warmed up
by this, to them, unusual good living, it is decided that the night
shall be spent in relating mythology. I ask _To-mor′-ro-un-ti-kai_ to
tell us about the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_, or One Two Boys, and to this
he agrees.

The long winter evenings of an Indian camp are usually devoted to the
relation of mythological stories, which purport to give a history of
an ancient race of animal gods. The stories are usually told by some
old man, assisted by others of the party, who take secondary parts,
while the members of the tribe gather about, and make comments, or
receive impressions from the morals which are enforced by the story
teller, or, more properly, story tellers; for the exercise partakes
somewhat of the nature of a theatrical performance.


THE SO′-KUS WAI′-UN-ATS.

_Tum-pwi-nai′-ro-gwi-nump_, he who had a stone shirt, killed _Si-kor′_,
the Crane, and stole his wife, and seeing that she had a child, and
thinking it would be an incumbrance to them on their travels, he
ordered her to kill it. But the mother, loving the babe, hid it under
her dress, and carried it away to its grandmother. And Stone Shirt
carried his captured bride to his own land.

In a few years the child grew to be a fine lad, under the care of his
grandmother, and was her companion wherever she went.

One day they were digging flag roots, on the margin of the river,
and putting them in a heap on the bank. When they had been at work a
little while, the boy perceived that the roots came up with greater
ease than was customary, and he asked the old woman the cause of
this, but she did not know; and, as they continued their work, still
the reeds came up with less effort, at which their wonder increased,
until the grandmother said, “Surely, some strange thing is about to
transpire.” Then the boy went to the heap, where they had been placing
the roots, and found that some one had taken them away, and he ran
back, exclaiming, “Grandmother, did you take the roots away?” And she
answered, “No, my child; perhaps some ghost has taken them off; let us
dig no more; come away.” But the boy was not satisfied, as he greatly
desired to know what all this meant; so he searched about for a time,
and at length found a man sitting under a tree, whom he taunted with
being a thief, and threw mud and stones at him, until he broke the
stranger’s leg, who answered not the boy, nor resented the injuries
he received, but remained silent and sorrowful; and, when his leg was
broken, he tied it up in sticks, and bathed it in the river, and sat
down again under the tree, and beckoned the boy to approach. When
the lad came near, the stranger told him he had something of great
importance to reveal. “My son,” said he, “did that old woman ever tell
you about your father and mother?” “No,” answered the boy; “I have
never heard of them.” “My son, do you see these bones scattered on the
ground? Whose bones are these?” “How should I know?” answered the boy.
“It may be that some elk or deer has been killed here.” “No,” said the
old man. “Perhaps they are the bones of a bear;” but the old man shook
his head. So the boy mentioned many other animals, but the stranger
still shook his head, and finally said, “These are the bones of your
father; Stone Shirt killed him, and left him to rot here on the ground,
like a wolf.” And the boy was filled with indignation against the
slayer of his father. Then the stranger asked, “Is your mother in
yonder lodge?” and the boy replied, “No.” “Does your mother live on the
banks of this river?” and the boy answered, “I don’t know my mother;
I have never seen her; she is dead.” “My son,” replied the stranger,
“Stone Shirt, who killed your father, stole your mother, and took her
away to the shore of a distant lake, and there she is his wife to-day.”
And the boy wept bitterly, and while the tears filled his eyes so that
he could not see, the stranger disappeared. Then the boy was filled
with wonder at what he had seen and heard, and malice grew in his heart
against his father’s enemy. He returned to the old woman, and said,
“Grandmother, why have you lied to me about my father and mother?” and
she answered not, for she knew that a ghost had told all to the boy.
And the boy fell upon the ground weeping and sobbing, until he fell
into a deep sleep, when strange things were told him.

His slumber continued three days and three nights, and when he awoke,
he said to his grandmother: “I am going away to enlist all nations in
my fight;” and straightway he departed.

(Here the boy’s travels are related with many circumstances concerning
the way he was received by the people, all given in a series of
conversations, very lengthy, so they will be omitted.)

Finally he returned in advance of the people whom he had enlisted,
bringing with him _Shin-au′-av_, the wolf, and _To-go′-av_, the
rattlesnake. When the three had eaten food, the boy said to the old
woman: “Grandmother, cut me in two!” But she demurred, saying she
did not wish to kill one whom she loved so dearly. “Cut me in two!”
demanded the boy; and he gave her a stone ax, which he had brought
from a distant country, and with a manner of great authority he again
commanded her to cut him in two. So she stood before him, and severed
him in twain, and fled in terror. And lo! each part took the form of an
entire man, and the one beautiful boy appeared as two, and they were so
much alike no one could tell them apart.

When the people or natives, whom the boy had enlisted, came pouring
into the camp, _Shin-au′-av_ and _To-go′-av_ were engaged in telling
them of the wonderful thing that had happened to the boy, and that now
there were two; and they all held it to be an augury of a successful
expedition to the land of Stone Shirt. And they started on their
journey.

Now the boy had been told in the dream of his three days’ slumber, of a
magical cup, and he had brought it home with him from his journey among
the nations, and the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ carried it between them,
filled with water. _Shin-au′-av_ walked on their right, and _To-go′-av_
on their left, and the nations followed in the order in which they had
been enlisted. There was a vast number of them, so that when they were
stretched out in line it was one day’s journey from the front to the
rear of the column.

When they had journeyed two days, and were far out on the desert, all
the people thirsted, for they found no water, and they fell down upon
the sand, groaning, and murmuring that they had been deceived, and they
cursed the One-Two.

But the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ had been told in the wonderful dream of
the suffering which would be endured, and that the water which they
carried in the cup was only to be used in dire necessity; and the
brothers said to each other: “Now the time has come for us to drink the
water.” And when one had quaffed of the magical bowl, he found it still
full; and he gave it to the other to drink, and still it was full; and
the One-Two gave it to the people, and one after another did they all
drink, and still the cup was full to the brim.

But _Shin-au′-av_ was dead, and all the people mourned, for he was a
great man. The brothers held the cup over him, and sprinkled him with
water, when he arose and said: “Why do you disturb me? I did have a
vision of mountain brooks and meadows, of cane where honey-dew was
plenty.” They gave him the cup, and he drank also; but when he had
finished there was none left. Refreshed and rejoicing they proceeded on
their journey.

The next day, being without food, they were hungry, and all were about
to perish; and again they murmured at the brothers, and cursed them.
But the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ saw in the distance an antelope, standing
on an eminence in the plain, in bold relief against the sky; and
_Shin-au′-av_ knew it was the wonderful antelope with many eyes, which
Stone Shirt kept for his watchman; and he proposed to go and kill it,
but _To-go′-av_ demurred, and said: “It were better that I should go,
for he will see you, and run away.” But the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ told
_Shin-au′-av_ to go; and he started in a direction away to the left
of where the antelope was standing, that he might make a long detour
about some hills, and come upon him from the other side. _To-go′-av_
went a little way from camp, and called to the brothers: “Do you see
me?” and they answered they did not. “Hunt for me;” and while they
were hunting for him, the rattlesnake said: “I can see you; you are
doing”--so and so, telling them what they were doing; but they could
not find him.

Then the rattlesnake came forth, declaring: “Now you know I can see
others, and that I cannot be seen when I so desire. _Shin-au′-av_
cannot kill that antelope, for he has many eyes, and is the wonderful
watchman of Stone Shirt; but I can kill him, for I can go where he is,
and he cannot see me.” So the brothers were convinced, and permitted
him to go; and he went and killed the antelope. When _Shin-au′-av_ saw
it fall, he was very angry, for he was extremely proud of his fame as a
hunter, and anxious to have the honor of killing this famous antelope,
and he ran up with the intention of killing _To-go′-av_; but when he
drew near, and saw the antelope was fat, and would make a rich feast
for the people, his anger was appeased. “What matters it,” said he,
“who kills the game, when we can all eat it?”

So all the people were fed in abundance, and they proceeded on their
journey.

The next day the people again suffered for water, and the magical cup
was empty; but the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_, having been told in their
dream what to do, transformed themselves into doves, and flew away to a
lake, on the margin of which was the home of Stone Shirt.

Coming near to the shore, they saw two maidens bathing in the water;
and the birds stood and looked, for the maidens were very beautiful.
Then they flew into some bushes, near by, to have a nearer view, and
were caught in a snare which the girls had placed for intrusive birds.
The beautiful maidens came up, and, taking the birds out of the snare,
admired them very much, for they had never seen such birds before. They
carried them to their father, Stone Shirt, who said: “My daughters,
I very much fear these are spies from my enemies, for such birds do
not live in our land;” and he was about to throw them into the fire,
when the maidens besought him, with tears, that he would not destroy
their beautiful birds; but he yielded to their entreaties with much
misgiving. Then they took the birds to the shore of the lake, and set
them free.

When the birds were at liberty once more, they flew around among the
bushes, until they found the magical cup which they had lost, and
taking it up, they carried it out into the middle of the lake and
settled down upon the water, and the maidens supposed they were drowned.

The birds, when they had filled their cup, rose again, and went back to
the people in the desert, where they arrived just at the right time to
save them with the cup of water, from which each drank; and yet it was
full until the last was satisfied, and then not a drop remained.

The brothers reported that they had seen Stone Shirt and his daughters.

The next day they came near to the home of the enemy, and the brothers,
in proper person, went out to reconnoitre. Seeing a woman gleaning
seeds, they drew near, and knew it was their mother, whom Stone Shirt
had stolen from _Si-kor′_, the crane. They told her they were her sons,
but she denied it, and said she had never had but one son; but the boys
related to her their history, with the origin of the two from one, and
she was convinced. She tried to dissuade them from making war upon
Stone Shirt, and told them that no arrow could possibly penetrate his
armor, and that he was a great warrior, and had no other delight than
in killing his enemies, and that his daughters also were furnished with
magical bows and arrows, which they could shoot so fast that the arrows
would fill the air like a cloud, and that it was not necessary for them
to take aim, for their missiles went where they willed; they _thought_
the arrows to the hearts of their enemies; and thus the maidens could
kill the whole of the people before a common arrow could be shot by a
common person. But the boys told her what the spirit had said in the
long dream, and had promised that Stone Shirt should be killed. They
told her to go down to the lake at dawn, so as not to be endangered by
the battle.

During the night, the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ transformed themselves into
mice, and proceeded to the home of Stone Shirt, and found the magical
bows and arrows that belonged to the maidens, and with their sharp
teeth they cut the sinew on the backs of the bows, and nibbled the bow
strings, so that they were worthless; while _To-go′-av_ hid himself
under a rock near by.

When dawn came into the sky, _Tum-pwi-nai′-ro-gwi-nump_, the Stone
Shirt man, arose and walked out of his tent, exulting in his strength
and security, and sat down upon the rock under which _To-go′-av_ was
hiding; and he, seeing his opportunity, sunk his fangs into the flesh
of the hero. Stone Shirt sprang high into the air, and called to his
daughters that they were betrayed, and that the enemy was near; and
they seized their magical bows, and their quivers filled with magical
arrows, and hurried to his defense. At the same time, all the nations
who were surrounding the camp rushed down to battle. But the beautiful
maidens, finding their weapons were destroyed, waved back their
enemies, as if they would parley; and, standing for a few moments over
the body of their slain father, sang the death song, and danced the
death dance, whirling in giddy circles about the dead hero, and wailing
with despair, until they sank down and expired.

The conquerors buried the maidens by the shores of the lake; but
_Tum-pwi-nai′-ro-gwi-nump_ was left to rot, and his bones to bleach on
the sands, as he had left _Si-kor′_.

There is this proverb among the Utes: “Do not murmur when you suffer
in doing what the spirits have commanded, for a cup of water is
provided.” And another: “What matters it who kills the game, when we
can all eat of it.”

It is long after midnight when the performance is ended. The story
itself was interesting, though I had heard it many times before; but
never, perhaps, under circumstances more effective. Stretched beneath
tall, sombre pines; a great camp fire, and by the fire, men, old,
wrinkled, and ugly; deformed, blear eyed, wry faced women; lithe,
stately young men; pretty but simpering maidens, naked children, all
intently listening, or laughing and talking at times, their strange
faces and dusky forms lit up with the glare of the pine-knot fire.
All the circumstances conspired to make it a scene strange and weird.
One old man, the sorcerer or medicine-man of the tribe, peculiarly
impressed me. Now and then he would interrupt the play for the purpose
of correcting the speakers, or impressing the moral of the story with
a strange dignity and impressiveness that seemed to pass to the very
border of the ludicrous; yet at no time did it make me smile.

The story is finished, but there is yet time for an hour or two’s
sleep. I take _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ to one side for a talk. The three
men who left us in the cañon last year found their way up the lateral
gorge, by which they went into the _Shi′-vwits_ Mountains, lying west
of us, where they met with the Indians, and camped with them one
or two nights, and were finally killed. I am anxious to learn the
circumstances, and as the people of the tribe who committed the deed
live but a little way from and are intimate with these people, I ask
_Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ to make inquiry for me. Then we go to bed.

_September 17._--Early this morning the Indians come up to our camp.
They have concluded to send out a young man after the _Shi′-vwits_. The
runner fixes his moccasins, puts some food in a sack and water in a
little wicker work jug, straps them on his back, and starts at a good
round pace.

We have concluded to go down the cañon, hoping to meet the _Shi′-vwits_
on our return. Soon we are ready to start, leaving the camp and pack
animals in charge of the two Indians who came with us. As we move out,
our new guide comes up, a blear eyed, weazen faced, quiet old man,
with his bow and arrows in one hand, and a small cane in the other.
These Indians all carry canes with a crooked handle, they say to kill
rattlesnakes, and to pull rabbits from their holes. The valley is high
up in the mountain, and we descend from it, by a rocky, precipitous
trail, down, down, down for two long, weary hours, leading our ponies
and stumbling over the rocks. At last we are at the foot of the
mountain, standing on a little knoll, from which we can look into a
cañon below. Into this we descend, and then we follow it for miles,
clambering down and still down. Often we cross beds of lava, that have
been poured into the cañon by lateral channels, and these angular
fragments of basalt make the way very rough for the animals.

About two o’clock the guide halts us with his wand, and springing over
the rocks he is lost in a gulch. In a few minutes he returns, and tells
us there is a little water below in a pocket. It is vile and stinking,
and our ponies refuse to drink it. We pass on, still ever descending.
A mile or two from the water basin we come to a precipice, more than
a thousand feet to the bottom. There is a cañon running at a greater
depth, and at right angles to this, into which this enters by the
precipice; and this second cañon is a lateral one to the greater one,
in the bottom of which we are to find the river. Searching about, we
find a way by which we can descend along the shelves, and steps, and
piles of broken rocks.

We start leading our ponies; a wall upon our left; unknown depths on
our right. At places our way is along shelves so narrow, or so sloping,
that I ache with fear lest a pony should make a misstep, and knock a
man over the cliffs with him. Now and then we start the loose rocks
under our feet, and over the cliffs they go, thundering down, down, as
the echoes roll through distant cañons. At last we pass along a level
shelf for some distance, then we turn to the right, and zigzag down a
steep slope to the bottom. Now we pass along this lower cañon, for two
or three miles, to where it terminates in the Grand Cañon, as the other
ended in this, only the river is 1,800 feet below us, and it seems,
at this distance, to be but a creek. Our withered guide, the human
pickle, seats himself on a rock, and seems wonderfully amused at our
discomfiture, for we can see no way by which to descend to the river.
After some minutes, he quietly rises, and, beckoning us to follow,
he points out a narrow sloping shelf on the right, and this is to be
our way. It leads along the cliff, for half a mile, to a wider bench
beyond, which, he says, is broken down on the other side in a great
slide, and there we can get to the river. So we start out on the shelf;
it is so steep we can hardly stand on it, and to fall, or slip, is to
go--don’t look and see!

It is soon manifest that we cannot get the ponies along the ledge. The
storms have washed it down, since our guide was here last, years ago.
One of the ponies has gone so far that we cannot turn him back until
we find a wider place, but at last we get him off. With part of the
men, I take the horses back to the place where there are a few bushes
growing, and turn them loose; in the meantime the other men are looking
for some way by which we can get down to the river. When I return,
one, Captain Bishop, has found a way, and gone down. We pack bread,
coffee, sugar, and two or three blankets among us, and set out. It is
now nearly dark, and we cannot find the way by which the captain went,
and an hour is spent in fruitless search. Two of the men go away around
an amphitheater, more than a fourth of a mile, and start down a broken
chasm that faces us, who are behind. These walls, that are vertical, or
nearly so, are often cut by chasms, where the showers run down, and the
top of these chasms will be back a distance from the face of the wall,
and the bed of the chasm will slope down, with here and there a fall.
At other places, huge rocks have fallen, and block the way. Down such
a one the two men start. There is a curious plant growing out from the
crevices of the rock. A dozen stems will start from one root, and grow
to the length of eight or ten feet, and not throw out a branch or twig,
but these stems are thickly covered with leaves. Now and then the two
men come to a bunch of dead stems, and make a fire to mark for us their
way and progress.

In the meantime we find such a gulch, and start down, but soon come
to the “jumping off place,” where we can throw a stone, and hear it
faintly striking, away below. We fear that we shall have to stay here,
clinging to the rocks until daylight. Our little Indian gathers a
few dry stems, ties them into a bundle, lights one end, and holds it
up. The others do the same, and with these torches we find a way out
of trouble. Helping each other, holding torches for each other, one
clinging to another’s hand until we can get footing, then supporting
the other on his shoulders, so we make our passage into the depths of
the cañon. And now Captain Bishop has kindled a huge fire of driftwood,
on the bank of the river. This, and the fires in the gulch opposite,
and our own flaming torches, light up little patches, that make more
manifest the awful darkness below. Still, on we go, for an hour or two,
and at last we see Captain Bishop coming up the gulch, with a huge
torch-light on his shoulders. He looks like a fiend, waving brands and
lighting the fires of hell, and the men in the opposite gulch are imps,
lighting delusive fires in inaccessible crevices, over yawning chasms;
our own little Indian is surely the king of wizards, so I think, as
I stop for a few moments on a rock to rest. At last we meet Captain
Bishop, with his flaming torch, and, as he has learned the way, he soon
pilots us to the side of the great Colorado. We are hungry and athirst,
almost to starvation. Here we lie down on the rocks and drink, just
a mouthful or so, as we dare; then we make a cup of coffee, and,
spreading our blankets on a sand beach, the roaring Colorado lulls us
to sleep.

_September 18._--We are in the Grand Cañon, by the side of the
Colorado, more than six thousand feet below our camp on the mountain
side, which is eighteen miles away; but the miles of horizontal
distance represent but a small part of the day’s labor before us. It
is the mile of altitude we must gain that makes it a herculean task.
We are up early; a little bread and coffee, and we look about us. Our
conclusion is, that we can make this a dépôt of supplies, should it be
necessary; that we can pack our rations to the point where we left our
animals last night, and that we can employ Indians to bring them down
to the water’s edge.

On a broad shelf, we find the ruins of an old stone house, the walls
of which are broken down, and we can see where the ancient people who
lived here--a race more highly civilized than the present--had made
a garden, and used a great spring, that comes out of the rocks, for
irrigation. On some rocks near by we discover some curious etchings.
Still, searching about, we find an obscure trail up the cañon wall,
marked, here and there, by steps which have been built in the loose
rock, elsewhere hewn stairways, and we find a much easier way to go
up than that by which we came down in the darkness last night. Coming
to the top of the wall, we catch our horses, and start. Up the cañon
our jaded ponies toil, and we reach the second cliff; up this we
go, by easy stages, leading the animals. Now we reach the stinking
water-pocket; our ponies have had no water for thirty hours, and are
eager even for this foul fluid. We carefully strain a kettleful for
ourselves, then divide what is left between them--two or three gallons
for each; but this does not satisfy them, and they rage around,
refusing to eat the scanty grass. We boil our kettle of water, and skim
it; straining, boiling, and skimming makes it a little better, for it
was full of loathsome, wriggling larvæ, with huge black heads. But
plenty of coffee takes away the bad smell, and so modifies the taste
that most of us can drink, though our little Indian seems to prefer the
original mixture. We reach camp about sunset, and are glad to rest.

_September 19._--We are tired and sore, and must rest a day with our
Indian neighbors. During the inclement season they live in shelters,
made of boughs, or bark of the cedar, which they strip off in long
shreds. In this climate, most of the year is dry and warm, and during
such time they do not care for shelter. Clearing a small, circular
space of ground, they bank it around with brush and sand, and wallow in
it during the day, and huddle together in a heap at night, men, women,
and children; buckskin, rags, and sand. They wear very little clothing,
not needing much in this lovely climate.

Altogether, these Indians are more nearly in their primitive condition
than any others on the continent with whom I am acquainted. They have
never received anything from the Government, and are too poor to tempt
the trader, and their country is so nearly inaccessible that the white
man never visits them. The sunny mountain side is covered with wild
fruits, nuts, and native grains, upon which they subsist. The _oose_,
the fruit of the yucca, or Spanish bayonet, is rich, and not unlike the
paw-paw of the valley of the Ohio. They eat it raw, and also roast it
in the ashes. They gather the fruits of a cactus plant, which is rich
and luscious, and eat them as grapes, or from them express the juice,
making the dry pulp into cakes, and saving them for winter; the wine
they drink about their camp fires, until the midnight is merry with the
revelries.

They gather the seeds of many plants, as sunflowers, goldenrods, and
grasses. For this purpose, they have large conical baskets, which hold
two or more bushels. The women carry them on their backs, suspended
from their foreheads by broad straps, and with a smaller one in the
left hand, and a willow woven fan in the right, they walk among the
grasses, and sweep the seed into the smaller basket, which is emptied,
now and then, into the larger, until it is full of seeds and chaff;
then they winnow out the chaff and roast the seeds. They roast these
curiously; they put the seeds, with a quantity of red hot coals, into a
willow tray, and, by rapidly and dexterously shaking and tossing them,
keep the coals aglow, and the seeds and tray from burning. As if by
magic, so skilled are the crones in this work, they roll the seeds to
one side of the tray, as they are roasted, and the coals to the other.
Then they grind the seeds into a fine flour, and make it into cakes and
mush.

It is a merry sight, sometimes, to see the women grinding at the mill.
For a mill, they use a large flat rock, lying on the ground, and
another small cylindrical one in their hands. They sit prone on the
ground, hold the large flat rock between the feet and legs, then fill
their laps with seeds, making a hopper to the mill with their dusky
legs, and grind by pushing the seeds across the larger rock, where it
drops into a tray. I have seen a group of women grinding together,
keeping time to a chant, or gossiping and chatting, while the younger
lassies would jest and chatter, and make the pine woods merry with
their laughter. Mothers carry their babes curiously in baskets. They
make a wicker board, by plaiting willows, and sew a buckskin cloth to
either edge, and this is fulled in the middle, so as to form a sack,
closed at the bottom. At the top, they make a wicker shade, like “my
grandmother’s sun bonnet,” and, wrapping the little one in a wild cat
robe, place it in the basket, and this they carry on their backs,
strapped over the forehead, and the little brown midgets are ever
peering over their mother’s shoulders. In camp, they stand the basket
against the trunk of a tree, or hang it to a limb.

There is little game in the country, yet they get a mountain sheep now
and then, or a deer, with their arrows, for they are not yet supplied
with guns. They get many rabbits, sometimes with arrows, sometimes
with nets. They make a net of twine, made of the fibers of a native
flax. Sometimes this is made a hundred yards in length, and is placed
in a half circular position, with wings of sage brush. They have a
circle hunt, and drive great numbers of rabbits into the snare, where
they are shot with arrows. Most of their bows are made of cedar, but
the best are made of the horns of mountain sheep. These are taken,
soaked in water, until quite soft, cut into long thin strips, and glued
together, and are then quite elastic. During the autumn, grasshoppers
are very abundant. When cold weather sets in, these insects are numbed,
and can be gathered by the bushel. At such a time, they dig a hole in
the sand, heat stones in a fire near by, put some in the bottom of the
hole, put on a layer of grasshoppers, then a layer of hot stones, and
continue this, until they put bushels on to roast. There they are left
until cool, when they are taken out, thoroughly dried, and ground into
meal. Grasshopper gruel, or grasshopper cake, is a great treat.

Their lore consists in a mass of traditions, or mythology. It is very
difficult to induce them to tell it to white men; but the old Spanish
priests, in the days of the conquest of New Mexico, have spread among
the Indians of this country many Bible stories, which the Indians are
usually willing to tell. It is not always easy to recognize them, the
Indian mind being a strange receptacle for such stories, and they are
apt to sprout new limbs. Maybe much of their added quaintness is due to
the way in which they were told by the “fathers.” But in a confidential
way, while you are alone, or when you are admitted to their camp fire
on a winter night, you will hear the stories of their mythology. I
believe that the greatest mark of friendship, or confidence, that an
Indian can give, is to tell you his religion. After one has so talked
with me, I should ever trust him; and I feel on very good terms with
these Indians, since our experience of the other night.

A knowledge of the watering places, and of the trails and passes, is
considered of great importance, and is necessary, to give standing to a
chief.

This evening, the _Shi′-vwits_, for whom we have sent, come in, and,
after supper, we hold a long council. A blazing fire is built, and
around this we sit--the Indians living here, the _Shi′-vwits_, Jacob
Hamblin, and myself. This man, Hamblin, speaks their language well,
and has a great influence over all the Indians in the region round
about. He is a silent, reserved man, and when he speaks, it is in a
slow, quiet way, that inspires great awe. His talk is so low that they
must listen attentively to hear, and they sit around him in deathlike
silence. When he finishes a measured sentence, the chief repeats it,
and they all give a solemn grunt. But, first, I fill my pipe, light it,
and take a few whiffs, then pass it to Hamblin; he smokes, and gives it
to the man next, and so it goes around. When it has passed the chief,
he takes out his own pipe, fills, and lights it, and passes it around
after mine. I can smoke my own pipe in turn, but, when the Indian pipe
comes around, I am nonplussed. It has a large stem, which has, at some
time, been broken, and now there is a buckskin rag wound around it,
and tied with sinew, so that the end of the stem is a huge mouthful,
and looks like the burying ground of old dead spittle, venerable for
a century. To gain time, I refill it, then engage in very earnest
conversation, and, all unawares, I pass it to my neighbor unlighted.

I tell the Indians that I wish to spend some months in their country
during the coming year, and that I would like them to treat me as a
friend. I do not wish to trade; do not want their lands. Heretofore
I have found it very difficult to make the natives understand my
object, but the gravity of the Mormon missionary helps me much. I
tell them that all the great and good white men are anxious to know
very many things; that they spend much time in learning, and that the
greatest man is he who knows the most. They want to know all about the
mountains and the valleys, the rivers and the cañons, the beasts, and
birds, and snakes. Then I tell them of many Indian tribes, and where
they live; of the European nations; of the Chinese, of Africans, and
all the strange things about them that come to my mind. I tell them
of the ocean, of great rivers and high mountains, of strange beasts
and birds. At last I tell them I wish to learn about their cañons and
mountains, and about themselves, to tell other men at home; and that
I want to take pictures of everything, and show them to my friends.
All this occupied much time, and the matter and manner made a deep
impression.

Then their chief replies: “Your talk is good, and we believe what you
say. We believe in Jacob, and look upon you as a father. When you are
hungry, you may have our game. You may gather our sweet fruits. We will
give you food when you come to our land. We will show you the springs,
and you may drink; the water is good. We will be friends, and when
you come we will be glad. We will tell the Indians who live on the
other side of the great river that we have seen _Ka′-pu-rats_, and he
is the Indians’ friend. We will tell them he is Jacob’s friend. We are
very poor. Look at our women and children; they are naked. We have
no horses; we climb the rocks, and our feet are sore. We live among
rocks, and they yield little food and many thorns. When the cold moons
come, our children are hungry. We have not much to give; you must not
think us mean. You are wise; we have heard you tell strange things. We
are ignorant. Last year we killed three white men. Bad men said they
were our enemies. They told great lies. We thought them true. We were
mad; it made us big fools. We are very sorry. Do not think of them, it
is done; let us be friends. We are ignorant--like little children in
understanding compared with you. When we do wrong, do not get mad, and
be like children too.

“When white men kill our people, we kill them. Then they kill more of
us. It is not good. We hear that the white men are a great number. When
they stop killing us, there will be no Indian left to bury the dead. We
love our country; we know not other lands. We hear that other lands are
better; we do not know. The pines sing, and we are glad. Our children
play in the warm sand; we hear them sing, and are glad. The seeds
ripen, and we have to eat, and we are glad. We do not want their good
lands; we want our rocks, and the great mountains where our fathers
lived. We are very poor; we are very ignorant; but we are very honest.
You have horses, and many things. You are very wise; you have a good
heart. We will be friends. Nothing more have I to say.”

_Ka′-pu-rats_ is the name by which I am known among the Utes and
Shoshones, meaning “arm off.” There was much more repetition than I
have given, and much emphasis. After this a few presents were given, we
shook hands, and the council broke up.

Mr. Hamblin fell into conversation with one of the men, and held him
until the others had left, and then learned more of the particulars of
the death of the three men. They came upon the Indian village almost
starved and exhausted with fatigue. They were supplied with food, and
put on their way to the settlements. Shortly after they had left, an
Indian from the east of the Colorado arrived at their village, and
told them about a number of miners having killed a squaw in drunken
brawl, and no doubt these were the men. No person had ever come down
the cañon; that was impossible; they were trying to hide their guilt.
In this way he worked them into a great rage. They followed, surrounded
the men in ambush, and filled them full of arrows.[11]

That night I slept in peace, although these murderers of my men, and
their friends, the _U-in-ka-rets_, were sleeping not five hundred yards
away. While we were gone to the cañon, the pack-train and supplies,
enough to make an Indian rich beyond his wildest dreams, were all
left in their charge, and were all safe; not even a lump of sugar was
pilfered by the children.

_September 20._--For several days we have been discussing the relative
merits of several names for these mountains. The Indians call them
_U-in-ka-rets_, the region of pines, and we adopt the name. The great
mountain we call Mount Trumbull, in honor of the Senator. To-day the
train starts back to the cañon water-pocket, while Captain Bishop and
I climb Mount Trumbull. On our way we pass the point that was the last
opening to the volcano.

It seems but a few years since the last flood of fire swept the valley.
Between two rough, conical hills it poured, and ran down the valley to
the foot of a mountain standing almost at the lower end, then parted,
and ran on either side of the mountain. This last overflow is very
plainly marked; there is soil, with trees and grass, to the very edge
of it, on a more ancient bed. The flood was everywhere on its border
from ten to twenty feet in height, terminating abruptly, and looking
like a wall from below. On cooling, it shattered into fragments, but
these are still in place, and you can see the outlines of streams and
waves. So little time has elapsed since it ran down, that the elements
have not weathered a soil, and there is scarcely any vegetation on
it, but here and there a lichen is found. And yet, so long ago was it
poured from the depths, that where ashes and cinders have collected in
a few places, some huge cedars have grown. Near the crater the frozen
waves of black basalt are rent with deep fissures, transverse to the
direction of the flow. Then we ride through a cedar forest, up a long
ascent, until we come to cliffs of columnar basalt. Here we tie our
horses, and prepare for a climb among the columns. Through crevices we
work, till at last we are on the mountain, a thousand acres of pine
land spread out before us, gently rising to the other edge. There are
two peaks on the mountain. We walked two miles to the foot of the one
looking to be the highest, then a long, hard climb to its summit. And
here, oh, what a view is before us! A vision of glory! Peaks of lava
all around below us. The Vermilion Cliffs to the north, with their
splendor of colors; the Pine Valley Mountain to the northwest, clothed
in mellow, perspective haze; unnamed mountains to the southwest,
towering over cañons, bottomless to my peering gaze, like chasms to
the nadir hell; and away beyond, the San Francisco Mountains, lifting
their black heads into the heavens. We find our way down the mountain,
reaching the trail made by the pack-train just at dusk.

Two days more, and we are at Pipe Spring; one day, and we are at Kanab.
Eight miles above the town is a cañon, on either side of which is a
group of lakes. By the side of one of these I sit, the crystal waters
at my feet, at which I may drink at will.

THE END


FOOTNOTES:

[10] Here the story is continued in September of the following year,
1870. (_Ed._)

[11] The murder of the two Howlands and Dunn was committed at what is
now known as Ambush Waterpocket, south of Mount Dellenbaugh. (_Ed._)

       *       *       *       *       *

OUTING ADVENTURE LIBRARY

_Edited by Horace Kephart_

¶ Here are brought together for the first time the great stories of
adventure of all ages and countries. These are the personal records
of the men who climbed the mountains and penetrated the jungles; who
explored the seas and crossed the deserts; who knew the chances and
took them, and lived to write their own tales of hardship and endurance
and achievement. The series will consist of an indeterminate number of
volumes--for the stories are myriad. The whole will be edited by Horace
Kephart. Each volume answers the test of these two questions: Is it
true? Is it interesting?

¶ The entire series is uniform in style and binding. Among the titles
now ready or in preparation are those described on the following pages.

PRICE $1.00 EACH, NET. POSTAGE 10 CENTS EXTRA

THE NUMBERS MAKE ORDERING CONVENIENT

1. IN THE OLD WEST, by George Frederick Ruxton. The men who blazed the
trail across the Rockies to the Pacific were the independent trappers
and hunters in the days before the Mexican war. They left no records
of their adventures and most of them linger now only as shadowy names.
But a young Englishman lived among them for a time, saw life from
their point of view, trapped with them and fought with them against
the Indians. That was George Frederick Ruxton. His story is our only
complete picture of the Old West in the days of the real Pioneers, of
Kit Carson, Jim Bridger, Bill Williams, the Sublettes, and all the rest
of that glorious company of the forgotten who opened the West.

2. CASTAWAYS AND CRUSOES. Since the beginnings of navigation men have
faced the dangers of shipwreck and starvation. Scattered through the
annals of the sea are the stories of those to whom disaster came and
the personal records of the way they met it. Some of them are given in
this volume, narratives of men who lived by their hands among savages
and on forlorn coasts, or drifted helpless in open boats. They range
from the South Seas to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, from the iron coast of
Patagonia to the shores of Cuba. They are echoes from the days when the
best that could be hoped by the man who went to sea was hardship and
man’s-sized work.

3. CAPTIVES AMONG THE INDIANS. First of all is the story of Captain
James Smith, who was captured by the Delawares at the time of
Braddock’s defeat, was adopted into the tribe, and for four years lived
as an Indian, hunting with them, studying their habits, and learning
their point of view. Then there is the story of Father Bressani who
felt the tortures of the Iroquois, of Mary Rowlandson who was among the
human spoils of King Philip’s war, and of Mercy Harbison who suffered
in the red flood that followed St. Clair’s defeat. All are personal
records made by the actors themselves in those days when the Indian was
constantly at our forefathers’s doors.

4. FIRST THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON, by Major John Wesley Powell. Major
Powell was an officer in the Union Army who lost an arm at Shiloh. In
spite of this four years after the war he organized an expedition which
explored the Grand Canyon of the Colorado in boats--the first to make
this journey. His story has been lost for years in the oblivion of a
scientific report. It is here rescued and presented as a record of one
of the great personal exploring feats, fitted to rank with the exploits
of Pike, Lewis and Clark, and Mackenzie.

5. ADRIFT IN THE ARCTIC ICE-PACK, By Elisha Kent Kane, M. D. Out of
the many expeditions that went north in search of Sir John Franklin
over fifty years ago, it fell to the lot of one, financed by a New York
merchant, to spend an Arctic winter drifting aimlessly in the grip of
the Polar ice in Lancaster Sound. The surgeon of the expedition kept a
careful diary and out of that record told the first complete story of a
Far Northern winter. That story is here presented, shorn of the purely
scientific data and stripped to the personal exploits and adventures of
the author and the other members of the crew.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Footnotes have been moved to the end of each chapter and relabeled
consecutively through the document.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.

The following change was made:

p. 84: standstone changed to sandstone (homogeneous sandstone. There)





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