Through the Grand Canyon from Wyoming to Mexico
by E. L. Kolb · English · Gutenberg #13150 · 507,766 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Through the Grand Canyon from Wyoming to Mexico
Author: E. L. Kolb
Author of introduction, etc.: Owen Wister
Release date: August 10, 2004 [eBook #13150]
Most recently updated: May 31, 2026
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13150
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON FROM WYOMING TO MEXICO ***
_Through the Grand Canyon
from Wyoming to Mexico_
[Illustration]
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
THE GRAND CANYON AT THE MOUTH OF HA VA SU CREEK.]
_Through the Grand Canyon
from Wyoming to Mexico_
_By
E. L. Kolb_
_With a Foreword by Owen Wister_
_New Edition
With Additional Illustrations
(72 Plates)
From Photographs by the
Author and His Brother_
_New York
The Macmillan Company
1915
All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1914,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1914. Reprinted
December, 1914. New edition published June, 1915.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
Dedication
TO THE MANY FRIENDS
WHO “PULLED” FOR US, IF NOT WITH US
DURING THE ONE HUNDRED ONE DAYS OF OUR RIVER TRIP
THIS VOLUME
IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
FOREWORD
It is a dogged courage of which the author of this book is the serene
possessor--shared equally by his daring brother; and evidence of this
bravery is made plain throughout the following pages. Every youth who
has in him a spark of adventure will kindle with desire to battle his
way also from Green River to the foot of Bright Angel Trail; while
every man whose bones have been stiffened and his breath made short
by the years, will remember wistfully such wild tastes of risk and
conquest that he, too, rejoiced in when he was young.
Whether it deal with the climbing of dangerous peaks, or the descent
(as here) of some fourteen hundred miles of water both mysterious and
ferocious, the well-told tale of a perilous journey, planned with
head and carried through with dauntless persistence, always holds
the attention of its readers and gives them many a thrill. This tale
is very well told. Though it is the third of its kind, it differs
from its predecessors more than enough to hold its own: no previous
explorers have attempted to take moving pictures of the Colorado
River with themselves weltering in its foam. More than this: while
the human race lasts it will be true, that any man who is lucky
enough to fix upon a hard goal and win it, and can in direct and
simple words tell us how he won it, will write a good book.
Perhaps this planet does somewhere else contain a thing like the
Colorado River--but that is no matter; we at any rate in our
continent possess one of nature’s very vastest works. After The River
and its tributaries have done with all sight of the upper world, have
left behind the bordering plains and streamed through the various
gashes which their floods have sliced in the mountains that once
stopped their way, then the culminating wonder begins. The River
has been flowing through the loneliest part which remains to us of
that large space once denominated “The Great American Desert” by the
vague maps in our old geographies. It has passed through regions of
emptiness still as wild as they were before Columbus came; where not
only no man lives now nor any mark is found of those forgotten men of
the cliffs, but the very surface of the earth itself looks monstrous
and extinct. Upon one such region in particular the author of these
pages dwells, when he climbs up out of the gulf in whose bottom he
has left his boat by the River, to look out upon a world of round
gray humps and hollows which seem as if it were made of the backs of
huge elephants. Through such a country as this, scarcely belonging
to our era any more than the mammoth or the pterodactyl, scarcely
belonging to time at all, does the Colorado approach and enter its
culminating marvel. Then, for 283 miles it inhabits a nether world of
its own. The few that have ventured through these places and lived
are a handful to those who went in and were never seen again. The
white bones of some have been found on the shores; but most were
drowned; and in this water no bodies ever rise, because the thick
sand that its torrent churns along clogs and sinks them.
This place exerts a magnetic spell. The sky is there above it, but
not of it. Its being is apart; its climate; its light; its own. The
beams of the sun come into it like visitors. Its own winds blow
through it, not those of outside, where we live. The River streams
down its mysterious reaches, hurrying ceaselessly; sometimes a smooth
sliding lap, sometimes a falling, broken wilderness of billows and
whirlpools. Above stand its walls, rising through space upon space
of silence. They glow, they gloom, they shine. Bend after bend they
reveal themselves, endlessly new in endlessly changing veils of
colour. A swimming and jewelled blue predominates, as of sapphires
being melted and spun into skeins of shifting cobweb. Bend after
bend this trance of beauty and awe goes on, terrible as the Day of
Judgment, sublime as the Psalms of David. Five thousand feet below
the opens and barrens of Arizona, this canyon seems like an avenue
conducting to the secret of the universe and the presence of the gods.
Is much wonder to be felt that its beckoning enchantment should
have drawn two young men to dwell beside it for many years; to give
themselves wholly to it; to descend and ascend among its buttressed
pinnacles; to discover caves and waterfalls hidden in its labyrinths;
to climb, to creep, to hang in mid-air, in order to learn more and
more of it, and at last to gratify wholly their passion in the great
adventure of this journey through it from end to end? No siren song
could have lured travellers more than the siren silence of the Grand
Canyon: but these young men did not leave their bones to whiten
upon its shores. The courage that brought them out whole is plain
throughout this narrative, in spite of its modesty.
OWEN WISTER.
PREFACE
This is a simple narrative of our recent photographic trip down
the Green and Colorado rivers in rowboats--our observations and
impressions. It is not intended to replace in any way the books
published by others covering a similar journey. Major J. W. Powell’s
report of the original exploration, for instance, is a classic,
literary and geological; and searchers after excellence may well be
recommended to his admirable work.
Neither is this chronicle intended as a handbook of the territory
traversed--such as Mr. F. S. Dellenbaugh’s two volumes: “The Romance
of the Grand Canyon,” and “A Canyon Voyage.” We could hardly hope to
add anything of value to his wealth of detail. In fact, much of the
data given here--such as distances, elevations, and records of other
expeditions--is borrowed from the latter volume. And I take this
opportunity of expressing our appreciation to Mr. Dellenbaugh for his
most excellent and entertaining books.
We are indebted to Mr. Julius F. Stone, of Columbus, Ohio, for much
valuable information and assistance. Mr. Stone organized a party and
made the complete trip down the Green and Colorado rivers in the fall
and winter of 1909, arriving at Needles, California, on November 27,
1909. He freely gave us the benefit of his experience and presented
us with the complete plans of the boats he used.
One member of this party was Nathan Galloway, of Richfield, Utah. To
him we owe much of the success of our journey. Mr. Galloway hunts
and traps through the wilds of Utah, Colorado, and Arizona, and has
a fame for skill and nerve throughout this entire region. He makes a
yearly trip through the upper canyons, usually in a boat of his own
construction; and in addition has the record of being the only person
who has made two complete trips through the entire series of canyons,
clear to Needles. He it is who has worked out the type of boats we
used, and their management in the dangerous waters of the Colorado.
We have tried to make this narrative not only simple, as we say, but
truthful. However, no two people can see things in exactly the same
light. To some, nothing looks big; to others, every little danger is
unconsciously magnified out of all proportion. For instance, we can
recall rapids which appeared rather insignificant at first, but which
seemed decidedly otherwise after we had been overturned in them and
had felt their power--especially at the moment when we were sure we
had swallowed a large part of the water that composed them.
The reader will kindly excuse the use of the first person, both
singular and plural. It is our own story, after all, and there seems
to be no other way than to tell it as you find it here.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. PREPARATIONS AT GREEN RIVER CITY, WYOMING 1
II. INTERESTING SIGHTS OF SOUTHERN WYOMING 12
III. THE GATEWAY OF ALL THE CANYONS 22
IV. SUSPICIOUS HOSTS 36
V. THE BATTLE WITH LODORE 50
VI. HELL’S HALF MILE 64
VII. JIMMY GOES OVER THE MOUNTAIN 71
VIII. AN INLAND EXCURSION 83
IX. CANYON OF DESOLATION 93
X. HOSPITABLE RANCHMEN 102
XI. WONDERS OF EROSION 111
XII. COULD WE SUCCEED? 121
XIII. A COMPANION VOYAGER 129
XIV. A PATIENT AMID THE CATARACTS 142
XV. PLACER GOLD 156
XVI. A WARNING 169
XVII. A NIGHT OF THRILLS 178
XVIII. MARBLE HALLS AND MARBLE WALLS 190
XIX. SIGNALLING OUR CANYON HOME 203
XX. ONE MONTH LATER 219
XXI. WHAT CHRISTMAS EVE BROUGHT 235
XXII. SHORT OF PROVISIONS IN A SUNLESS GORGE 249
XXIII. THE LAST PORTAGE AND THE LAST RAPIDS 267
XXIV. ON THE CREST OF A FLOOD 280
XXV. FOUR DAYS TO YUMA 290
XXVI. ACROSS THE MEXICO BORDER 303
XXVII. THE GULF OF CALIFORNIA 321
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Grand Canyon near the mouth of Ha Va Su Creek
_Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
After a difficult picture. E. C. Kolb on rope 2
In the Grand Canyon near the Little Colorado 6
The start at Green River, Wyoming 10
Fire Hole Chimneys 10
A typical butte formation 14
Boats and crew. Photo taken in the Grand Canyon 18
Skeleton found in the Grand Canyon 22
Inside of the first canyons 26
Tilted rocks at Kingfisher Canyon 26
“Immense rocks had fallen from the cliff” 36
Ashley Falls, looking down-stream 40
The rocks were dark red; occasional pines grew on the
ledges, making a charming combination of colour 44
“We stopped at one hay ranch close to the Utah-Colorado
line” 48
Remarkable entrance to Lodore Canyon 52
“The river cut a channel under the walls” at Lower
Disaster Falls 56
“Everything was wet” 56
A Colorado River salmon 60
Lodore Canyon as seen from Brown’s Park. 60
“The Canyon was gloomy and darkened with shreds of
clouds” 64
“It took nine loads to empty one boat” 68
“An upright log was found wedged between the boulders” 68
Echo Cliffs. “This was the end of Lodore” 72
End of Echo Cliffs. The mouth of the Yampa River is
on the right 72
Marvels of erosion 76
“Here was one end of the rainbow of rock that began
on the other side of the mountains” 80
Pat Lynch: the canyon hermit 84
Each bed was placed in a rubber and a canvas sack 90
“Now for a fish story” 100
The centre of three symmetrical formations in the Double
Bow Knot 114
The Buttes of the Cross 118
“The Land of Standing Rocks was like a maze” 122
Rocks overhanging the Colorado’s Gorge 122
Thirteen hundred feet above the Green River 124
The junction of the Green and the Grand Rivers 128
Looking west into Cataract Canyon 132
Charles Smith and his boat 132
A narrow channel at Rapid No. 22 136
Developing tests 136
Rapid No. 22 in Cataract Canyon 140
The _Edith_ in a cataract 144
A seventy-five-foot drop in three-fourths of a mile 144
Camp in the heart of Cataract Canyon 148
Lower Cataract Canyon. Boats tandem 152
Beginning of a natural bridge. Glen Canyon 152
Pictographs in Glen Canyon 158
Cliff ruins near San Juan River 162
Rainbow Natural Bridge, looking south 162
Rainbow Natural Bridge, looking north 166
Glen Canyon near Navajo Mountain 170
Upper Marble Canyon 170
Placer dredge at Lee’s Ferry 174
Badger Creek Rapid 180
Bands of marble in Marble Canyon 180
A peaceful camp in Marble Canyon 184
The Soap Creek Rapid; a little above lowest stage. Photo
published by permission of Julius F. Stone 188
“It was too good a camp to miss” 192
Arch in Marble Canyon 192
Walls of Marble Canyon 196
Approaching the Grand Canyon 200
End of Marble Canyon, from the mouth of the Little
Colorado 204
Cataracts of the Little Colorado River 204
End of Hance Trail. Small white line is an intrusion of
quartz in the algonkian 208
Below the Sockdologer 210
The Rust Tramway. Span four hundred and fifty feet 214
Bright Angel Creek and Canyon 218
Leaving home, Dec. 19, 1911 222
A composite picture of Marble Canyon walls and a Grand
Canyon rapid 222
The _Edith_ (on left of central rock) in
Granite Falls 226
Rough water in Hermit Creek Rapid 230
Type of rapid in the granite near Bass Trail 234
The inner plateau, thirteen hundred feet above the river 238
Bert Lauzon, above Separation Rapid 238
The break in the _Edith_ 242
Merry Christmas. The repair was made with bilge boards,
canvas, paint, and tin 242
Pulling clear of a rock 246
A shower bath 246
Grand Canyon at the mouth of Ha Va Su Canyon. Medium
high water. Frontispiece shows same place in
low water 250
“Morning revealed a little snow,” on the top 252
New Year’s Eve was spent in this section between the
highest sheer walls in the lower gorge 252
Lava Falls. Lava on left, hot springs on right 254
Swift water in Tapeets Creek Rapid 260
Lauzon, equipped with a life preserver on a rope, on
guard below a rapid 260
In the last granite gorge 260
Capt. Burro: a Ha Va Supai 266
The Last Portage. The rocks were ice-filmed. Note
potholes 270
Mooney Falls: Ha Va Su Canyon 274
Watching for the signal fire. Mrs. Emery and Edith Kolb 278
The granite gorge near Bright Angel Trail 282
The Grand Canyon from the head of Bright Angel Trail 286
The Cork Screw: lower end of Bright Angel Trail 290
Zoroaster Temple from the end of Bright Angel Trail 298
Winter in the Grand Canyon from the Rim 308
Winter in the Grand Canyon at the River 308
A vaquero in the making 318
Cliff swallows’ nests. Found from Wyoming to Mexico 318
Steam vents beside Volcanic Lake 326
Cocopah Mountain, Mexico 326
Ten miles from the Gulf of California. Coming up on
a twenty-foot tide 332
Sunset on the lower Colorado River 332
_Through the Grand Canyon from Wyoming to Mexico_
[Illustration: Map]
THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON FROM WYOMING TO MEXICO
CHAPTER I
PREPARATIONS AT GREEN RIVER CITY, WYOMING
Early in September of 1911 my brother Emery and I landed in Green
River City, Wyoming, ready for the launching of our boats on our
long-planned trip down the Green and Colorado rivers.
For ten years previous to this time we had lived at the Grand
Canyon of Arizona, following the work of scenic photography. In a
general way we had covered much of the country adjacent to our home,
following our pack animals over ancient and little-used trails,
climbing the walls of tributary canyons, dropping over the ledges
with ropes when necessary, always in search of the interesting and
unusual.
After ten years of such work many of our plans in connection with a
pictorial exploration of the Grand Canyon were crowned with success.
Yet all the while our real ambition remained unsatisfied.
We wanted to make the “Big Trip”--as we called it; in other words,
we wanted a pictorial record of the entire series of canyons on the
Green and Colorado rivers.
The time had come at last, after years of hoping, after long months
of active preparation.
We stood at the freight window of the station at Green River City
asking for news of our boats. They had arrived and could be seen in
their crates shoved away in a corner. It was too late to do anything
with them that day; so we let them remain where they were, and went
out to look over the town.
Green River City proved to be a busy little place noisy with switch
engines, crowded with cattle-men and cowboys, and with hunting
parties outfitting for the Jackson Hole country. A thoroughly Western
town of the better sort, with all the picturesqueness of people and
surroundings that the name implies.
It was busier than usual, even, that evening; for a noisy but
good-natured crowd had gathered around the telegraph office, eager
for news of a wrestling match then taking place in an Eastern city.
As we came up they broke into a cheer at the news that the American
wrestler had defeated his foreign opponent. There was a discussion
as to what constituted the “toe-hold,” three boys ran an impromptu
foot-race, there was some talk on the poor condition of the range,
and the party began to break up.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
AFTER A DIFFICULT PICTURE. E. C. KOLB ON THE ROPE.]
The little excitement over, we returned to the hotel; feeling, in
spite of our enthusiasm, somewhat lonesome and very much out of
place. Our sleep that night was fitful and broken by dreams wherein
the places we had known were strangely interwoven with these new
scenes and events. Through it all we seemed to hear the roar of the
Rio Colorado.
We looked out of the window the next morning, on a landscape that
was novel, yet somehow familiar. The river, a quarter of a mile
away, very clear and unruffled under its groves of cottonwood, wound
through low barren hills, as unlike as could be to the cliffs and
chasms we knew so well. But the colours--gray, red, and umber, just
as Moran has painted them--reassured us. We seemed not so far from
home, after all.
It was Wyoming weather, though; clear and cold, after a windy night.
When, after breakfast, we went down to the river, we found that a
little ice had formed along the margin.
The days of final preparation passed quickly--with unpacking of
innumerable boxes and bundles, checking off each article against our
lists; and with a long and careful overhauling of our photographic
outfit.
This last was a most important task, for the success of our
expedition depended on our success as photographers. We could not
hope to add anything of importance to the scientific and topographic
knowledge of the canyons already existing: and merely to come out
alive at the other end did not make a strong appeal to our vanity.
We were there as scenic photographers in love with their work, and
determined to reproduce the marvels of the Colorado’s canyons, as far
as we could do it.
In addition to three film cameras we had 8 × 10 and 5 × 7 plate
cameras; a plentiful supply of plates and films; a large cloth
dark-room; and whatever chemicals we should need for tests. Most
important of all, we had brought a motion-picture camera. We had
no real assurance that so delicate an apparatus, always difficult
to use and regulate, could even survive the journey--much less, in
such inexperienced hands as ours, reproduce its wonders. But this,
nevertheless, was our secret hope, hardly admitted to our most
intimate friends--that we could bring out a record of the Colorado as
it is, a live thing, armed as it were with teeth, ready to crush and
devour.
There was shopping to do; for the purchases of provisions, with a few
exceptions, had been left to the last. There were callers, too--an
embarrassing number of them. We had camped on a small island near
the town, not knowing when we did so that it had recently been put
aside for a public park. The whole of Green River City, it seemed,
had learned of our project, and came to inspect, or advise, or jeer
at us. The kindest of them wished us well; the other sort told us
“it would serve us right”; but not one of our callers had any
encouragement to offer. Many were the stories of disaster and death
with which they entertained us. One story in particular, as it seems
never to have reached print--though unquestionably true--ought to be
set down here.
Three years before two young men from St. Louis had embarked here,
intending to follow the river throughout its whole course. They were
expert canoeists, powerful swimmers, and equipped with a steel boat,
we were told, built somewhat after the style of a canoe. They chose
the time of high water--not knowing, probably, that while high water
decreases the labour of the passage, it greatly increases the danger
of it. They came to the first difficult rapid in Red Canyon, seventy
odd miles below Green River City. It looked bad to them. They landed
above it and stripped to their underclothing and socks. Then they
pushed out into the stream.
Almost at once they lost control of the boat. It overturned; it
rolled over and over; it flung them off and left them swimming for
their lives. In some way, possibly the currents favouring, they
reached the shore. The boat, with all its contents, was gone. There
they were, almost naked, without food, without weapons, without
the means of building a fire; and in an uninhabited and utterly
inhospitable country.
For four days they wandered, blistered by the sun by day; nearly
frozen at night, bruised by the rocks, and torn by the brambles.
Finally they reached the ranch at the head of the canyons and were
found by a half-breed Indian, who cared for them. Their underwear
had been made into bindings for their lacerated feet; they were
nearly starved, and on the verge of mental collapse. After two weeks’
treatment in the hospital at Green River City they were partially
restored to health. Quite likely they spent many of the long hours
of their convalescence on the river bank, or on the little island,
watching the unruffled stream glide underneath the cottonwoods.
Such tales as this added nothing to our fears, of course--for the
whole history of the Colorado is one long story of hardship and
disaster, and we knew, even better than our advisors, what risks lay
before us. We told our newfound friends, in fact, that we had lived
for years on the brink of the Grand Canyon itself, a gorge deeper
and more awful, even, than Lodore; with a volume of water ten times
greater. We knew, of course, of the river’s vast length, of the
terrible gorges that confined it, of the hundreds of rapids through
which a boat would have to pass.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
IN THE GRAND CANYON NEAR THE LITTLE COLORADO.]
We knew, too, how Major Powell, undismayed by legends of underground
channels, impassable cataracts, and whirlpools; of bloodthirsty
tribes haunting its recesses,--had passed through the canyons in
safety, measuring and surveying as he went. We also knew of the
many other attempts that had been made--most of them ending in
disaster or death, a very few being successful.
Well, it had been done;[1] it could be done again--this was our
answer to their premonitions.
We had present worries enough to keep us from dwelling too much on
the future. It had been our intention to start two weeks earlier, but
there had been numerous unavoidable delays. The river was low; “the
lowest they had seen it in years” they told us, and falling lower
every day. There were the usual difficulties of arranging a lot of
new material, and putting it in working order.
At last we were ready for the boats, and you may be sure we lost no
time in having them hauled to the river, and launching them.
They were beauties--these two boats of ours--graceful, yet strong in
line, floating easily, well up in the water, in spite of their five
hundred pounds’ weight. They were flat-bottomed, with a ten-inch rake
or raise at either end; built of white cedar, with unusually high
sides; with arched decks in bow and stern, for the safe storing of
supplies. Sealed air chambers were placed in each end, large enough
to keep the boats afloat even if filled with water. The compartment
at the bow was lined with tin, carefully soldered, so that even a
leak in the bottom would not admit water to our precious cargoes. We
had placed no limit on their cost, only insisting that they should
be of materials and workmanship of the very best, and strictly in
accordance with our specifications. In every respect but one they
pleased us. Imagine our consternation when we discovered that the
hatch covers were anything but water-tight, though we had insisted
more upon this, perhaps, than upon any other detail. Loose boards,
with cross-pieces, fastened with little thumbscrews--there they were,
ready to admit the water at the very first upset.
There was nothing to be done. It was too late to rebuild the hatches
even if we had had the proper material. Owing to the stage of water
it was imperative that we should start at once. Bad as it would be to
have water in our cargo, it would be worse to have too little water
in the rock-obstructed channels of Red Canyon, or in the “flats” at
Brown’s Park for instance.
Certainly the boats acted so beautifully in the water that we could
almost overlook the defective hatches. Emery rowed upstream for a
hundred yards, against a stiff current, and came back jubilant.
“They’re great--simply great!” he exclaimed.
We had one real cause for worry, for actual anxiety, though; and as
each hour brought us nearer to the time of departure, we grew more
and more desperate. What about our third man?
We were convinced that a third man was needed; if not for the duties
of camp making, helping with the cooking and portaging; at least, for
turning the crank of the motion-picture camera. Emery and I could
not very well be running rapids, and photographing ourselves in the
rapids at the same time. Without a capable assistant, therefore, much
of the real purpose would be defeated.
Our first move, accordingly, had been to secure the services of a
strong, level-headed, and competent man. Friends strongly advised us
to engage a Canadian canoe-man, or at least some one familiar with
the management of boats in rough water. It was suggested, also, that
we might secure the help of some one of the voyagers who had been
members of one of the previous expeditions.
But--we may as well be frank about it--we did not wish to be piloted
through the Colorado by a guide. We wanted to make our own trip in
our own way. If we failed, we would have no one but ourselves to
blame; if we succeeded, we would have all the satisfaction that comes
from original, personal exploration. In other words, we wanted a man
to execute orders, not to give them. But that man was hard to find!
There had been many applicants; some of them from distant parts of
the country. One by one they were sifted out. At length we decided
on one man; but later he withdrew. We turned elsewhere, but these
applications were withdrawn, until there remained but a single
letter, from a young man in San Francisco. He seemed in every way
qualified. We wrote accepting his application, but while waiting to
hear from us a civil service position had been offered and accepted.
“He was sorry”; and so were we, for his references proved that he
was a capable man. Later he wrote that he had secured a substitute.
We replied on the instant, by wiring money for transportation, with
instructions for the new man to report at once at Green River.
We took very much for granted, having confidence in our friends’
sincerity and knowledge of just what was required.
The time had passed, two days before; but--no sign of our man! We
wrote, we telegraphed, we walked back and forth to every train; but
still he did not come. Had this man, too, failed us?
Then “Jimmy” came--just the night before we were to leave. And never
was a man more heartily welcome!
With James Fagen of San Francisco our party was complete. He was an
Irish-American, aged 22 years, a strong, active, and willing chap. To
be sure, he was younger, and not so experienced at “roughing it” as
we had hoped. But his good qualities, we were sure, would make up for
what was lacking.
[Illustration: THE START AT GREEN RIVER, WYOMING.]
[Illustration: FIRE HOLE CHIMNEYS.]
Evening found us encamped a half mile below the town, the county
bridge. Our preparations were finished--even to the final purchase of
odds and ends; with ammunition for shot-gun and rifle. We threw our
sleeping-bags on the dry ground close to the river’s edge, and, all
our anxieties gone, we turned our faces to the stars and slept.
At daybreak we were aroused by the thunder of hoofs on the bridge
above us, and the shouts of cowboys driving a large herd of
half-broken horses. We tumbled into our clothes, splashed our faces
with ice-cold water from the river, and hurried over to the hotel for
a last breakfast.
Then we sat down--in the little hotel at Green River City--as others
had done before, to write last messages to those who were nearest
and dearest to us. A telegram to our parents in an Eastern city; and
another to Emery’s wife and little girl, at Bright Angel, more than
eight hundred miles down this self-same river--these, somehow, took
longer to write than the letters themselves. But whatever we may have
felt, we finished this final correspondence in silence, and hurried
back to the river.
Something of a crowd had gathered on the bridge to wish us _bon
voyage_. Shouting up to them our thanks for their hospitality, and
telling them to “look pleasant,” we focussed the motion-picture
camera on them, Emery turning the crank, as the boat swung out into
the current.
So began our journey, on Friday, September the 8th, 1911, at 9.30
A.M., as entered in my journal.
CHAPTER II
INTERESTING SIGHTS OF SOUTHERN WYOMING
All this preparation--and still more, the vexatious delays--had been
a heavy tax upon us. We needed a vacation. We took it--six pleasant
care-free days--hunting and fishing as we drifted through the sixty
miles of southern Wyoming. There were ducks and geese on the river
to test our skill with the shot-gun. Only two miles below Green
River City Emery secured our first duck, a promise of good sport
to follow. An occasional cottontail rabbit was seen, scurrying to
cover through the sage-brush, when we made a detour from the boats.
We saw many jack-rabbits too--with their long legs, and exaggerated
ears--creatures swifter, even, than the coyotes themselves.
We saw few people, though an occasional rancher hailed us from the
shore. Men of the open themselves, the character of our expedition
appealed to them. Their invitations to “come up to the ranch, and
spend the evening” were always hearty, and could seldom be refused if
the day was nearly gone.
The Logan boys’ ranch, for instance, was our first camp; but will
be one of the last to be forgotten. The two Logan boys were sturdy,
companionable young men, full of pranks, and of that bubbling,
generous humour that flourishes in this Western air. We were amused
by their kindly offer to allow Jimmy to ride “the little bay”--a
beautiful animal, with the shifty eye of a criminal. But Jimmy,
though city-bred, was not to be trapped, and declined; very wisely,
as we thought. We photographed their favourite horses, and the cabin;
also helped them with their own camera, and developed some plates in
the underground storm-cellar,--a perfect dark-room, as it happened.
We took advantage of this pleasant camp to make a few alterations
about our boats. Certain mechanical details had been neglected in
our desire to be off, our intention being to look after them as
occasion demanded. Our short run had already shown us where we were
weak or unprepared. The rowlocks needed strengthening. One had come
apart in our first brush with a little riffle. The rowlocks were of
a little-used type, but very serviceable in dangerous waters. Inside
the usual rowlock a heavy ring was hung, kept in place by strong
set-screws, but allowing full play in every direction. These rings
were slipped over the oars; then the usual leather collar was nailed
on the oar, making it impossible for the rings to become separated
from the oars. The holes for the set-screws were too shallow, so we
went over the entire lot to deepen them. We foresaw where a break
might occur, and hung another lock of the open type on a cord, beside
each oar, ready for instant use in case of emergency.
The Logan boys, seeing our difficulties in making some of these
changes, came to our relief. “Help yourselves to the blacksmith
shop,” they said heartily. Here was an opportunity. Much time was
consumed in providing a device to hold our extra oars--out of the way
on top of the deck, but available at a moment’s notice. Thanks to the
Logan boys and their blacksmith shop, these and many other little
details were corrected once for all; and we launched our boats in
confidence on the morning of September 10.
A few miles below we came to the locally famous Fire Hole Chimneys,
interesting examples of the butte formation, so typical of the West.
There were several of these buttes, about 800 feet high, composed of
stratified rock; in colour quite similar to the rocks at Green River
City, but capped with rock of a peculiar burnt appearance, though
not of volcanic origin. Some of the buttes sloped up from the very
edge of the river; others were separated from the river by low flats,
covered with sage-brush and bunch-grass,--that nutritious food of the
range stock. At the water’s edge was the usual fringe of willows,
cottonwoods, and shrubs innumerable,--all mirrored in the limpid
surface of Green River.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL BUTTE FORMATION.]
At the foot of the cliffs were a number of wild burros, old
and young--fuzzy little baby-burros, looking ridiculously like
jack-rabbits--snorting their indignation at our invasion of their
privacy. Strange, by the way, how quickly these wild asses lose their
wildness of carriage when broken, and lapse into the utmost docility!
Just below the Chimneys Emery caught sight of fish gathered in a
deep pool, under the foliage of a cottonwood tree which had fallen
into the river. Our most tempting bait failed to interest them; so
Emery, ever clever with hook and line, “snagged” one just to teach
them better manners. It was a Colorado River salmon or whitefish.
That evening I “snagged” a catfish and used this for salmon bait, a
fourteen-pound specimen rewarding the attempt.
These salmon were old friends of ours, being found from one end to
the other of the Colorado, and on all its tributaries. They sometimes
weigh twenty-five or thirty pounds, and are common at twenty pounds;
being stockily built fish, with large, flat heads. They are not
gamey, but afford a lot of meat with a very satisfying flavour.
On September 11, about forty miles below Green River, we passed
Black’s Fork, a tributary entering from the west. It is a stream of
considerable length, but was of little volume at that time. The banks
were cliffs about 300 feet high, rugged, dark, and overhanging. Here
were a half dozen eagles and many old nests--proof enough, if proof
were needed, that we were in a little visited country. What strong,
splendid birds they were; how powerful and graceful their flight as
they circled up, and up, into the clear blue sky!
Our next camp was at the Holmes’ ranch, a few miles below Black’s
Fork. We tried to buy some eggs of Walter Holmes, and were told that
we could have them on one condition--that we visit him that evening.
This was a price we were only too glad to pay, and the evening will
linger long in our memories.
Mr. Holmes entertained us with stories of hunting trips--after big
game in the wilds of Colorado; and among the lakes of the Wind River
Mountains, the distant source of the Green River. Mrs. Holmes and
two young ladies entertained us with music; and Jimmy, much to our
surprise, joined in with a full, rich baritone. It was late that
night when we rolled ourselves in our blankets, on the banks twenty
feet above the river.
Next morning we were shown a group of Mrs. Holmes’ pets--several
young rabbits and a kitten, romping together in the utmost good
fellowship. The rabbits had been rescued from a watery grave in an
irrigation ditch and carefully nursed back to life. We helped her
search for a lame wild duck that had spurned the offer of a good
home with civilized ducklings, and had taken to the sage-brush.
Mrs. Holmes’ love of wild animals, however, failed to include the
bald-headed eagle that had shown such an appetite for her spring
chickens.
A few miles below this ranch we passed Bridger Crossing, a ford on
an old trail through southern Wyoming. In pioneer days Jim Bridger’s
home was on this very spot. But those romantic days are long since
past; and where this world-famous scout once watched through the
loopholes of his barricade, was an amazed youngster ten or eleven
years old who gazed on us, then ran to the cabin and emerged with
a rifle in his hands. We thought little of this incident at the
time, but later we met the father of the boy and were told that
the children had been left alone with the small boy as their only
protector, and that he stood ready to defend the home against any
possible marauders. No doubt we looked bad enough to him.
Just below the ford the channel widened, and the river became very
shallow, the low rolling hills falling away into a wide green
prairie. We camped that night on a small island, low and treeless,
but covered with deep, rank grass. Next morning our sleeping-bags
were wet with frost and dew. A hard pull against a heavy wind between
gradually deepening rocky banks made us more than glad to pitch
camp at noon a short distance above the mouth of Henry’s Fork, a
considerable stream flowing from the west. In the afternoon Emery and
I decided to walk to Linwood, lying just across the Utah line, four
miles up Henry’s Fork. Jimmy preferred to remain with the boats.
Between the river and a low mesa lay a large ranch of a different
appearance from those others which we had passed. Those past were
cattle ranches, with stock on the open range, and with little ground
fit for cultivation, owing to the elevation. Here we found great,
broad acres, fenced and cultivated, with thoroughbred stock--horses
and cattle--contentedly grazing.
This pastoral scene, with a background of rugged mountains, appealed
strongly to our photographic instincts. After three or four
exposures, we climbed the farthest fence and passing from alfalfa to
sage-brush in one step, were at the foot of the mesa.
Climbing to the summit, we beheld the village in the distance, in
a beautiful green valley--a splendid example of Mormon irrigation
and farming methods. Linwood proved to be the market-place for all
the ranchers of this region. Dotting the foot-hills where water
was less plentiful were occasional cabins, set down in the middle
of hay ranches. All this husbandry only emphasized the surrounding
desolation. Just beyond, dark in the southern sky, rose the great
peaks of the Uintah range, the mountains we were so soon to enter.
[Illustration:
E. L. KOLB. EMERY KOLB. H. LAUZON. _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
BOATS AND CREW. PHOTO TAKEN IN THE GRAND CANYON.]
Storm-clouds had been gathering about one great snow-covered peak,
far in the distance. These clouds spread and darkened, moving rapidly
forward. We had taken the hint and were already making all
possible haste toward the town, hoping to reach it before the storm
broke. But it was useless. Long before we had gained the edge of the
valley the rain had commenced in the mountains,--small local storms,
resembling delicate violet-coloured veils, hung in the dense pall of
the clouds. There were far flashes of lightning, and the subdued roar
of distant thunder, rapidly growing louder as the storm approached.
Unable to escape a drenching, we paused a moment to wonder at the
sight; to marvel--and shrink a little too--at the wild, incessant
lightning. The peaks themselves seemed to be tumbling together, such
was the continuous roar of thunder, punctuated by frequent deafening
crashes.
Then the storm came down upon us. Such torrents of rain we have
seldom witnessed: such gusts of driving wind! At times we could
scarcely make headway against it, but after most strenuous effort
we neared the village. We hoped to find shelter under a bridge, but
found innumerable muddy streams running through the planks. So we
resumed our plodding, slipping and sliding in the black, bottomless
mud.
The storm by this time had passed as quickly as it came. Wet to our
skins, we crawled into the little store and post-office combined,
and found it filled with ranch hands, waiting for the weekly mail.
We made a few purchases, wrote some letters, then went to a large
boarding-house near by and fortified ourselves with a generous, hot
supper.
There were comments by some of the men on our venture, but they
lacked the true Green River tang. Here, close to the upper canyons,
the unreasonable fear of the rapids gave way to a reasonable respect
for them. Here we heard again of the two young men from St. Louis,
and the mishaps that had befallen them. Here too we were to hear
for the first time of the two Snyders, father and son, and the
misfortunes that had overtaken them in Lodore Canyon, twenty years
before. We were to hear more of these men later.
We made what haste we could back to our boats, soon being overtaken
by a horseman, a big-hearted Swede who insisted on carrying our
load as long as we were going in his direction. How many just such
instances of kindliness we were to experience on our journey down the
river! How the West abounds with such men! It was dark when he left
us a mile from the river. Here there was no road to follow, and we
found that what had been numerous dry gullies before were now streams
of muddy water. Two or three of these streams had to be crossed, and
we had a disagreeable half hour in a marsh. Finally we reached the
river, but not at the point where we had left our boats. We were
uncertain whether the camp was above or below us, and called loudly
for Jimmy, but received no answer.
Emery felt sure that camp was upstream. So upstream we went, keeping
back of the bushes that fringed the banks, carefully searching for a
sign. After a few minutes’ hunt we heard a sound: a subdued rumble,
not unlike the distant thunder heard that afternoon, or of boats
being dragged over the pebbles. What could it be? We listened again,
carefully this time, and discovered that it came from a point about
thirty feet away, on the opposite side of the bushes. It could be
only one thing. Jimmy’s snore had brought us home!
Hurriedly securing some dry clothes from the rubber sacks, which
contained our sleeping-bags as well, we made a quick change, and slid
into the beds, inflating the air mattresses with our lungs after we
were inside. Then we lay down contentedly to rest.
CHAPTER III
THE GATEWAY OF ALL THE CANYONS
We awoke the next morning full of anticipation. Something new lay
ahead of us, a promise of variety. In plain sight of our camp lay
the entrance to Flaming Gorge, the gateway to the entire series of
canyons. Hurriedly finishing our camp duties, we loaded the boats,
fastened down the hatches, and shoved off into the current, eager to
be on our way.
It was cloudy overhead and looked as if we were to have more rain.
Even then it must have been raining away to the north, for a dirty,
clay-colored torrent rushed through the dry arroyo of the night
before, a stream large enough to discolour the water of the Green
itself. But we thought little of this. We were used to seeing muddy
water in the Colorado’s gorges; in fact we were surprised to find
clear water at all, even in the Green River. Rowing downstream we
found that the country sloped gently towards the mountains. The river
skirted the edge of these foot-hills as if looking for a possible
escape, then turned and entered the mountain at a sharp angle. The
walls sloped back considerably at first, and there was a little
shore on either side.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
SKELETON FOUND IN THE GRAND CANYON.]
Somewhere near this point runs the dividing line of Wyoming and Utah.
We considered the gateway a subject worthy of a motion picture, if
taken from the deck of the boat; but doubted if it would be a success
owing to the condition of the light and the motion of the boat. Still
it was considered worthy of a trial, and the film was run through.
The colour of the rocks at the entrance was a light red, but not out
of the ordinary in brilliancy. The rock formation was stratified,
but displaced; standing at an angle and flexed over on top with a
ragged break here and there, showing plainly the great pressure to
which the rocks had been subjected. The upheaval was not violent, the
scientists tell us, but slow and even, allowing the river to maintain
its old channel, sawing its way through the sandstone. The broken
canyon walls, when well inside the gorge, were about 600 to 700 feet
high. The mountains beyond and on either side were much higher. The
growth on the mountain sides was principally evergreen; Douglas
fir, the bull-pine and yellow pine. There was a species of juniper,
somewhat different from the Utah juniper, with which we were familiar
at the Grand Canyon. Bushes and undergrowth were dense above the
steep canyon walls, which were bare. Willows, alder-thickets, and a
few cottonwood trees lined the shores.
Meanwhile the current had quickened, almost imperceptibly at first,
but enough to put us on our guard. While there were no rapids, use
was made of what swift water we found by practising on the method
we would use in making a passage through the bad rapids. As to this
method, unused as yet by either of us, we had received careful verbal
instruction from Mr. Stone, who had made the trip two years before
our own venture; and from other friends of Nathan Galloway, the
trapper, the man who first introduced the method on the Green and
Colorado rivers.
Our experience on water of any kind was rather limited. Emery could
row a boat, and row it well, before we left Green River, but had
never gone over any large rapids. While he was not nearly so large
or heavy as I,--weighing no more than 130 pounds, while I weighed
170 pounds,--he made up for his lighter weight by a quickness and
strength that often surprised me. He was always neat and clever
in his method of handling his boat, taking a great deal of pride
in keeping it free from marks, and avoiding rocks when making a
landing. I had done very little rowing before leaving Green River,
so little that I had difficulty in getting both oars in the water at
the same time. Of course it did not take me long to learn that; but
I did not have the knack of making clean landings, and bumped many
rocks that my brother missed. Still I was improving all the time and
was anxious to get into the rough water, feeling sure I would get
through somehow, but doing my best in the meantime to get the knack
of handling the boat properly before the rough water was reached.
An occasional rock would stick up above the surface; the swift
water would rush up on it, or drive past on either side. Instead of
pulling downstream with might and main, and depending on a steersman
with a sweep-oar to keep us clear of obstructions--the method
usually adopted on large rivers, and by the earlier parties on the
Colorado--by our method the single oarsman reversed his boat so that
it was turned with the stern downstream, giving the oarsman a view of
what was ahead; then by pulling upstream the boat was held in check.
We allowed ourselves to be carried in a direct line with the rocks
ahead, approaching them as closely as we dared; then, with a pull on
one oar, the boat was turned slightly at an angle to the current,
and swung to one side or the other; just as a ferry is headed into
the current, the water itself helping to force it across. The ferry
is held by a cable; the boat, by the oarsman; the results are quite
similar.
The boats, too, were somewhat unusual in design, having been
carefully worked out by Galloway after much experience with the
problem, and after building many boats. He finally settled on the
design furnished us by Mr. Stone. The flat bottom, sloping up from
the centre to either end, placed the boats on a pivot one might say,
so that they could be turned very quickly, much more quickly than if
they had had a keel. There was a four-foot skag or keel under the
stern end of the boat, but this was only used when in quiet water;
and as it was never replaced after being once removed we seldom refer
to it. Being flat-bottomed, they drew comparatively little water, a
matter quite important on low water such as we found in the Green
River. While each boat carried a weight of seven hundred pounds in
addition to its own five hundred pounds, they often passed over rocks
less than ten inches below the surface, and did so without touching.
While the boats were quite large, the arched decks made them look
even larger. A considerable amount of material could be stored under
these decks. The only part of the boat that was entirely open or
unprotected from the waves was the cockpit, or mid-section occupied
by the oarsman. This was only large enough for one man. A second man
had to sit on the deck behind the oarsman, with his feet hanging
into the cockpit. Jimmy occupied this place of honour as we drifted
through the placid water; first on one boat, then on the other,
entertaining us meanwhile with his songs.
We encountered two splashy little rapids this day, but with no rocks,
or any dangerous feature whatever. Any method, or none at all, was
safe enough in these rapids.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
INSIDE OF THE FIRST CANYONS.]
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
TILTED ROCKS AT KINGFISHER CANYON.]
The colouring of the rocks changed as we proceeded, and at the lower
end of the short canyon we saw the flaming patch of colour that
had suggested its name to Major Powell, forty-two years before.
Intensified on that occasion by the reflected light of a gorgeous
sunset, it must have been a most brilliant spectacle.
Two beavers slid into the water when we were close beside them, then
rose to the surface to stare curiously when we had passed. We left
them undisturbed. Some geese decoyed us into an attempt to ambush
them, but they kept always just out of reach of our guns. Wise
fellows, those geese!
A geological fault accompanied by the breaking down of the walls
marks the division between Flaming Gorge and Horseshoe Canyon, which
immediately follows. We nooned here, opposite a deserted cabin. A
trail dropped by easy stages over the slope on the east side; and
fresh tracks showed that sheep had recently been driven down to the
water’s edge.
Passing through Horseshoe,--another very short canyon,--we found
deep, placid pools, and sheer, light red walls rising about four
hundred feet on either side, then sloping back steeply to the
tree-covered mountains. In the middle of this canyon Emery was
startled out of a day-dream by a rock falling into the water close
beside him, with never a sound of warning. Years spent in the
canyons had accustomed Emery and me to such occurrences; but Jimmy,
unused to great gorges and towering cliffs, was much impressed by
this incident. After all, it is only the unusual that is terrible.
Jimmy was ready enough to take his chances at dodging bricks hurled
by a San Francisco earthquake, but never got quite used to rocks
descending from a source altogether out of sight. Small wonder, after
all! Later we were to experience more of this thing, and on a scale
to startle a stoic!
We halted at the end of Horseshoe, early in the afternoon of
September 14, 1911, one week out from Green River City. Camp No. 6
was pitched on a gravelly shore beside Sheep Creek, a clear sparkling
stream, coming in from the slopes of the Uintah range. Just above
us, on the west, rose three jagged cliffs, about five hundred feet
high, reminding one by their shape of the Three Brothers of Yosemite
Valley. Here, again, we were treated to another wonderful example of
geologic displacement, the rocks of Horseshoe Canyon lying in level
strata; while those of Kingfisher, which followed, were standing on
end. Sheep Creek, flowing from the west, finds an easy course through
the fault, at the division of the canyons. The balance of this day
was spent in carefully packing our material and rearranging it in our
boats, for we expected hard work to follow.
Tempted by the rippling song of the brook, and by tales of fish to
be found therein, we spent two hours fishing from its banks on the
morning of the 15th. But the foliage of overhanging trees and shrubs
was dense, making it difficult to cast our lines, or even to climb
along its shores, and our small catch of two trout, which were fried
with a strip of bacon to add flavour, only whetted our appetites for
more.
It was a little late in the season for many birds. Here in Kingfisher
Canyon were a few of the fish-catching birds from which the canyon
took its name. There were many of the tireless cliff-swallows
scattered all through these canyons, wheeling and darting, ever
on the wing. These, with the noisy crested jays, an occasional
“camp-robber,” the little nuthatches, the cheerful canyon wren
with his rollicking song, the happy water-ousel, “kill-deer,” and
road-runners and the water birds,--ducks, geese, and mud-hens, with
an occasional crane,--made up the bird life seen in the open country
and in these upper canyons. Earlier in the season it must be a bird’s
paradise, for berries and seeds would then be plentiful.
We resumed our journey at 10 A.M., a very short run bringing us
to the end of Kingfisher Canyon. The three canyons passed through
approximate hardly more than ten miles in length, different names
being given for geological reasons, as they really form only one
canyon. The walls at the end were broken down, and brilliantly
tinted talus of many hues covered the slopes, the different colours
intermingling near the bottom. The canyon-walled river turned
southeast here, and continued in this general direction for many
miles, but with many twists and turns.
We had previously been informed that Red Canyon, the next to follow,
while not considered bad when compared to others, gave one the
experience most necessary to combat the rapids farther down. It was
not without danger, however, as a review of previous expeditions
showed: some had lost their lives, still others, their boats; and one
of Major Powell’s parties had upset a boat in a Red Canyon rapid.
The stage of water was so different on these previous attempts that
their experiences were of little value to us one way or the other. A
reference to pictures taken by two of these parties showed us there
was considerable more water when they went through--six, and even
eight feet higher in places. Possibly this would be the best stage
on which to make the voyage in heavy boats. The unfortunate ones had
taken the spring rise, or flood water, with disastrous results to
themselves or their boats.
We soon found that our passage was to be hard on account of having
too little water. In the quiet water above we had been seldom
bothered with shoals; but now that we were in swifter water, there
was scarcely any depth to it at all, except in the quiet pools
between the rapids.
For a description of our passage through this upper end of Red Canyon
we refer to our journal: sketchy notes jotted down, usually in the
evening just before retiring, by the light of a camp-fire, or the
flickering flame of a candle. Under the date of Friday, September the
15th, we find the following:
“End of Kingfisher: long, quiet pools and shoals where we grounded a
few times; several small, splashy rapids; then a larger one near an
old boat landing. Looked the rapid over from the shore. Jim remained
at the lower end with a life-preserver on a rope, while we ran the
rapid. Struck one or two rocks, lightly; but made the run in safety.”
“At the third rapid we saw some geese--but they got away. At noon
we ate a cold lunch and because of the low water removed the skags,
carrying them in the cockpit. The scenery in upper Red Canyon is
impressive: pines and fir come down on the sloping sides to the
river’s edge; the rocks are reddish brown in colour, often broken
in squares, and looking like great building blocks piled one upon
another. The canyon is about fifteen hundred feet deep; the river is
clear again, and averages about two hundred feet in width. We have
seen a few deer tracks, but have not seen any deer. We also saw some
jumping trout in a splashy little rapid. Doubtless they came from a
little creek, close by, for we never heard of trout being found in
the Green River.”
“We made a motion picture, while dropping our boats down with lines,
over the first rapid we considered bad. Emery remained in the boats,
keeping clear of the rocks with a pole. Powell’s second party records
an upset here.” We passed Kettle Creek about 5 P.M. In the fifth
rapid below Kettle Creek I got on the wrong side of the river and
was carried into a very rocky rapid--the worst so far encountered. I
touched a rock or two at the start, but made the run in safety; while
Emery ran the opposite side without trouble. We camped beside a small
stream on the south, where there were signs of an old camp.”
“_Saturday, September 16_. Clear and cold in the early morning.
Started about 9 A.M. Lined our boats past a difficult rapid. Too many
rocks, not enough water. Two or three miles below this I had some
difficulty in a rapid, as the pin of a rowlock lifted out of the
socket when in the middle of rough water. Emery snapped a picture
just as it happened. A little later E. C.[2] ran a rocky rapid, but
had so much trouble that we concluded to line my boat. Noon. Just a
cold lunch, but with hot coffee from the vacuum bottles. Then at it
again.”
“The scenery is wonderful; the canyon is deeper than above; the river
is swift and has a decided drop. We proceed cautiously, and make slow
progress. We camp for the day on the north side close to a little,
dry gully, on a level sage and bunch-grass covered bottom back from
the river’s edge. An abruptly descending canyon banked with small
cottonwood trees coming in from the opposite side contains a small
stream. Put up our tent for the second time since leaving Green
River, Wyoming. We are all weary, and glad to-morrow is Sunday--a day
of rest.”
“_Sunday, September 17._ E. C. and I follow a fresh deer track up a
game trail and get--a rabbit. Climb out about 1300 feet above the
river to the top of the narrow canyon. Here is a sloping plateau,
dotted with bunch-grass and grease-wood, a fourth of a mile wide.
Then rounded mountains rise beyond the plateau, some of the peaks
reaching a height of 4000 feet above the river. The opposite side is
much the same, but with a wider plateau. We had no idea before what a
wonderful country this is. It is a picture to tempt an artist. High
on the mountain tops is the dark blue-green of pines and firs, reds
and yellows are mixed in the quaking aspen,--for the frost comes
early enough to catch the sap in the leaves; little openings, or
parks with no trees, are tinted a beautiful soft gray; ‘brownstone
fronts’ are found in the canyon walls; and a very light green in
the willow-leafed cottonwoods at the river’s edge, and in all side
canyons where there is a running stream. The river glistens in the
sunlight, as it winds around the base of the wall on which we stand,
and then disappears around a bend in the canyon. Turn where we will,
we see no sign of an opening, nothing but the rounded tops of wooded
mountains, red and green, far as the eye can reach, until they
disappear in the hazy blue. Finally Emery’s keen eyes, aided by the
binoculars, discover a log cabin at the foot of a mountain, on the
plateau opposite us, about three miles away.”
“We hurry back to camp and write some letters; then Jim and I cross
the river and climb out over the rocky walls to the plateau above. In
two hours we reach the cabin. It is new--not yet finished. A woman
and four children are looking over a garden when we arrive. They are
a little frightened at first, but soon recover. The woman gladly
promises to take out our mail when they go to the nearest town,
which happens to be Vernal, Utah, forty-five miles away. Three other
families live near by, all recently moved in from Vernal. The woman
tells us that Galloway hunts bear in these timbered mountains, and
has killed some with a price on their heads--bear with a perverted
taste for fresh beef.”[3]
“Thanking the woman, we make our way back to the river. We see some
dried-out elk horns along our trail; though it is doubtful if elk
get this far south at present. A deer trail, leading down a ravine,
makes our homeward journey much easier. It has turned quite cold this
evening, after sunset. We finish our notes and prepare to roll into
our beds a little earlier than usual.”
CHAPTER IV
SUSPICIOUS HOSTS
We awoke bright and early the next morning, much refreshed by our day
of rest and variety. With an early start we were soon pulling down
the river, and noon found us several miles below the camp, having run
eleven rapids with no particular difficulty. A reference in my notes
reads: “Last one has a thousand rocks, and we could not miss them
all. My rowing is improving, and we both got through fairly well.” In
the afternoon they continued to come--an endless succession of small
rapids, with here and there a larger one. The canyon was similar
to that at our camp above, dark red walls with occasional pines on
the ledges,--a most charming combination of colour. At 2.30 P.M.
we reached Ashley Falls, a rapid we had been expecting to see for
some time. It was a place of singular beauty. A dozen immense rocks
had fallen from the cliff on the left, almost completely blocking
the channel--or so it seemed from one point of view. But there was
a crooked channel, not more than twelve wide in places, through
which the water shot like a stream from a nozzle.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“IMMENSE ROCKS HAD FALLEN FROM THE CLIFF.”]
We wanted a motion picture of our dash through the chute. But the
location for the camera was hard to secure, for a sheer bank of rock
or low wall prevented us from climbing out on the right side. We
overcame this by landing on a little bank at the base of the wall and
by dropping a boat down with a line to the head of the rapid where a
break occurred in the wall. Jimmy was left with the camera, the boat
was pulled back, and we prepared to run the rapid.
We first had to pass between two square rocks rising eight feet above
the water so close together that we could not use the oars; then,
when past these, pull ten feet to the right in order to clear the
large rock at the end of the main dam, or barrier, not more than
twenty feet below. To pull down bow first and try to make the turn,
would mean to smash broadside against this rock. It could only be
done by dropping stern first, and pulling to the right under the
protection of the first rocks; though it was doubtful if even this
could be accomplished, the current was so swift. The _Defiance_ was
ready first, the _Edith_ was to follow as closely as safety allowed.
Almost before I knew it I was in the narrow channel, so close to the
right rock that I had to ship that oar, and pull altogether on the
left one. As soon as I was through I made a few quick strokes, but
the current was too strong for me; and a corner of the stern struck
a bang when I was almost clear. She paused as a wave rolled over the
decks, then rose quickly; a side current caught the boat, whirling it
around, and the bow struck. I was still pulling with all my might,
but everything happened so quickly,--with the boat whirling first
this way, then that,--that my efforts were almost useless. But after
that second strike I did get in a few strokes, and pulled into the
quiet pool below the line of boulders.
Emery held his boat in better position than I had done, and it looked
for a while as if he would make it. But the _Edith_ struck on the
stern, much as mine had done. Then he pulled clear and joined me in
the shelter of the large rock, as cool and smiling as if he had been
rowing on a mill-pond. We were delighted to find that our boats had
suffered no damage from the blows they had received. Striking on the
ends as they did, the shock was distributed throughout the whole boat.
This completed our run for that day, and we went into camp just below
the “Falls.” Emery painted the name _Edith_ on the bow of his boat,
at this camp. The name was given in honour of his four-year-old
daughter, waiting for us at the Grand Canyon. I remarked that as no
one loved me, I would name my boat the _Defiance_. But I hesitated
about putting this name on the bow. I would look rather foolish, I
thought, if the _Defiance_ should be wrecked in the first bad rapid.
So the christening of my boat was left until such time as should
have earned the title, although she was constantly referred to as the
_Defiance_.
We remained until noon of the following day at Ashley Falls,
exploring, repairing, and photographing this picturesque spot. The
canyon walls here dropped down to beautiful, rolling foot-hills eight
or nine hundred feet high tree covered as before but more open. The
diversity of rocks and hills was alluring. There was work to be
done and no pleasanter spot could be found in which to do it. Among
other things that had to be looked after were some adjustments to
the motion-picture camera--usually referred to by us as the M. P.
C.--this delicate work always falling to Emery, for he alone could do
it.
There was much to interest us here. Major Powell reported finding
the name “Ashley” painted under an overhanging rock on the left side
of the river. Underneath was a date, rather indistinct, but found to
have been 1825, by Dellenbaugh, after carefully tracing the career
of Colonel Ashley who was responsible for the record. Accompanied
by a number of trappers, he made the passage through this canyon at
that early day. We found a trace of the record. There were three
letters--A-s-h--the first two quite distinct, and underneath were
black spots. It must have been pretty good paint to leave a trace
after eighty-six years!
Resuming our journey we passed into deep canyon again,--the deepest
we had found up to this time,--with steeply sloping, verdure-covered
walls about 2700 feet high. The rapids still continued. At one rapid
the remark was made that “Two feet of water would cover two hundred
rocks so that our boats would pass over them.” But we did not have
the two feet needed.
We had previously been informed that some of these mountains were
the hiding-places of men who were “wanted” in the three states which
bordered near here. Some escaping prisoners had also been traced to
the mountains in this direction; then all tracks had ceased. The few
peaceable ranchers who lived in these mountains were much alarmed
over these reports. We found one such rancher on the plateau above
the canyon, whom we will call Johnson for convenience,--living in one
of the upper canyons. He sold us some provisions. In return he asked
us to help him swim some of his horses across the river. He said the
high water had taken out his own boat. The horses were rounded up
in a mountain-hidden valley and driven into the water ahead of the
boat. After securing the horses, Johnson’s welcome seemed to turn
to suspicion and he questioned our reasons for being there, wanting
to know what we could find in that wild country to interest us.
Johnson’s sons, of whom there were several, seemed to put in most of
their time at hunting and trapping, never leaving the house without
a gun. The cabin home looked like an arsenal, revolvers and guns
hanging on all the walls--even his daughters being familiar with
their use. Although we had been very well treated after all, Mrs.
Johnson especially having been very kind to us, we felt just a little
relieved when the Johnson ranch was left behind. We use, in fact,
a fictitious name, not caring to visit on them the suspicions we
ourselves felt in return.
[Illustration: ASHLEY FALLS, LOOKING DOWN-STREAM.]
Another morning passed in repairing the M. P. camera, and another
afternoon’s work was necessary to get us out of the walls and the
rapids of Red Canyon. But on the evening of the 20th, we did get out,
and pulled into an open country known as Brown’s Park, one week after
entering Flaming Gorge. It had not been very fast travelling; but we
were through, and with no mishap more serious than a split board on
the side of my boat. Under favourable conditions, and in experienced
hands, this distance might have been covered in three days. But
meanwhile, we were gaining a lot of experience.
About the lower end of Red Canyon the river turned directly east,
paralleling the northern boundary of Utah, and continued to flow in
this general direction until it crossed into Colorado.
On emerging from Red Canyon we spied a ranch house or log cabin close
to the river. The doors were open and there were many tracks in
the sand, so we thought some one must be about. On approaching the
house, however, we found the place was deserted, but with furniture,
books, and pictures piled on the floor in the utmost confusion, as
if the occupants had left in a great hurry. This surmise afterward
proved to be correct; for we learned that the rancher had been
murdered for his money, his body having been found in a boat farther
down the river. Suspicion pointed to an old employee who had been
seen lurking near the place. He was traced to the railroad, over a
hundred miles to the north; but made his escape and was never caught.
We found Brown’s Park, once known as Brown’s Hole, to be a beautiful
valley several miles in width, and thirty-five or forty miles in
length. The upper end of the valley was rugged in places, with rocky
hills two or three hundred feet high. To the south, a few miles away,
were the mountains, a continuation of those we had come through. We
saw many cattle scattered over some of these rocky hills, grazing
on the bunch-grass. At one place our course led us through a little
canyon about two miles long, and scarcely more than two hundred feet
deep. This was Swallow Canyon--a name suggested by the many birds of
that species which had covered the canyon’s walls with their little
clay nests. The openings of some of these nests were so small that it
scarcely seemed possible for a bird to enter.
The water was deep and quiet in this short canyon, and a hard wind
blowing up the stream made it difficult for us to gain any headway.
In this case, too, the forms of the boat were against us. With the
keel removed and with their high sides catching the wind, they were
carried back and forth like small balloons. Well, we could put
up with it for a while, for those very features would prove most
valuable in the rough-water canyons which were to follow!
Emerging from the canyon at last, we saw a ferry loaded with sheep
crossing the stream. On the left shore was a large corral, also
filled with sheep which a half dozen men were driving back and forth
into different compartments. Later these men told us there were 2400
sheep in the flock. We took their word for it, making no attempt to
count them. The foreman of the ranch agreed to sell us some sugar and
honey,--these two articles being a welcome addition to our list of
supplies, which were beginning to show the effects of our voracious
appetites.
We found many other log cabins and ranches as we proceeded. Some of
them were deserted; at others men were busily engaged in cutting hay
or the wild grass that grew in the bottoms. The fragrance of new-mown
hay was in the air. Young boys and women were among these busy
workers, some of the women being seated on large harvesters, handling
the horses with as much dexterity as any of the men.
The entire trip through this pretty valley was full of interest.
We were hailed from the shore by some of the hay ranchers, it being
a novel sight to them to see a river expedition. At one or two of
these places we asked the reason for the deserted ranches above, and
were given evasive answers. Finally we were told that cattle rustlers
from the mountains made it so hard for the ranchers in the valleys
that there was nothing for them to do but get out. They told us,
also, that we were fortunate to get away from Johnson’s ranch with
our valuables! Our former host, we were told, had committed many
depredations and had served one term for cattle stealing. Officers,
disguised as prospectors, had taken employment with him and helped
him kill and skin some cattle; the skins, with their telltale brands,
having been partially burned and buried. On this evidence he was
afterwards convicted.
Our cool welcome by the Johnsons, their suspicions of us, the
sinister arsenal of guns and pistols, all was explained! Quite likely
some of these weapons had been trained against us by the trappers on
the chance that we were either officers of the law, or competitors in
the horse-stealing industry. For that matter we were actually guilty
of the latter count, for come to think of it, we ourselves had helped
them steal eight horses and a colt!
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
THE ROCKS WERE DARK RED: OCCASIONAL PINES GREW ON THE LEDGES, MAKING
A CHARMING COMBINATION OF COLOUR.]
The entire trip through this pretty valley was full of interest. It
was all so different from anything seen above. There were great
bottoms that gave evidence of having recently been overflooded,
though now covered with cottonwood trees, gorgeous in their autumn
foliage. We had often wondered where all the driftwood that floated
down the Colorado came from; but after seeing those unnumbered acres
of cottonwoods we ceased to wonder.
There were many beaver slides on the banks; and in places, numberless
trees had been felled by these industrious animals. On one or two
occasions we narrowly escaped splitting the sides of our boats on
snags of trees which the beavers had buried in the bottom of the
stream. We saw no beaver dams on the river; they were not necessary,
for deep, quiet pools existed everywhere in Brown’s Park. We saw two
beavers in this section. One of these rose, porpoise-like, to the top
of the water, stared at us a moment, then brought his tail down with
a resounding smack on the top of the water, and disappeared, to enter
his home by the subterranean route, no doubt.
The river was gradually losing its clear colour, for the sand-bars
were beginning to “work out,” or break, making the water quite roily.
In some sections of Brown’s Park we grounded on these sand-bars,
making it necessary for us to get out into the water, pushing and
pulling on the boats until deeper water was reached. Sometimes
the deep water came when least expected, the sand-bars having
a disconcerting way of dropping off abruptly on the downstream
side. Jimmy stepped off the edge of one of these hidden ledges
while working with a boat and was for some time in no condition to
appreciate our ill-concealed mirth.
Often we would be passing along on perfectly smooth water, when
suddenly a turmoil would rise all about us, as though a geyser had
broken out below the surface. If we happened to be directly over it,
the boat would be rocked back and forth for a while; then all would
be peaceful again. This was most often caused by the ledges of sand,
anywhere from three to ten feet high, breaking down or falling forward
as their bases were undermined. In a single night a bar of this kind
will work upstream for a distance of several feet; then the sand will
be carried down with the current to lodge again in some quiet pool,
and again be carried on as before. This action gives rise to long
lines of regular waves or swells extending for some distance down
the stream. These are usually referred to as sand-waves. These waves
increase in size in high water; and the monotonous thump, thump of
the boat’s bottom upon them is anything but pleasant, especially if
one is trying to make fast time.
So, with something new at every turn, we pulled lazily through
Brown’s Park, shooting at ducks and geese when we came near them,
snapping our cameras when a picture presented itself, and observing
the animal life along the stream.
We stopped at one hay-ranch close to the Utah-Colorado line and
chatted awhile with the workers. A pleasant-faced woman named Mrs.
Chew asked us to deliver a message at a ranch a mile or two below.
Here also was the post-office of Lodore, Colorado, located a short
distance above the canyon of the same name. Mrs. Chew informed us
that they had another ranch at the lower end of Lodore Canyon and
asked us to look them up when we got through, remarking:
“You may have trouble, you know. Two of my sons once tried it. They
lost their boat, had to climb out, and nearly starved before they
reached home.”
The post-office at the ranch, found as described, without another
home in sight, was a welcome sight to us for several reasons. One
reason was that it afforded shelter from a heavy downpour of rain
that greeted us as we neared it, and a better reason still was, that
it gave us a chance to write and mail some letters to those who would
be most anxious to hear from us.
Among the messages we mailed was a picture post-card of Coney Island
at night. In some way this card had slipped between the leaves of
a book that I had brought from the East. I sent it out, addressed
to a friend who would understand the joke; writing underneath the
picture, “We have an abundance of such scenery here.” The young woman
who had charge of the office looked at the card in amazement. It was
evidently something new to her. She told us she had never been to
the railroad, and that her brother took the mail out on horseback to
Steamboat, Colorado, 140 miles distant.
The rain having ceased, we returned to our boats, pausing to admire a
rainbow that arched above the canyon in the mountains, toward which
we were headed. We remarked, jokingly, to Jimmy that this was a good
sign. He replied without smiling that he “hoped so.” Jimmy’s songs
had long since ceased, and we suspected him of homesickness. With the
exception of a short visit to some friends on a large ranch, Jimmy
had never been away from his home in San Francisco. This present
experience was quite a contrast, to be sure! We did what we could to
keep him cheered up, but with little success. Jimmy had intimated
that he would prefer to leave at the first opportunity to reach a
railroad, and we willingly agreed to help him in every possible way.
Emery and I also agreed between ourselves that we would not take any
unnecessary risks with him; but would leave him out of the boats at
all rapids, if there was any passage around them.
The river had taken a sharp turn to the south soon after passing the
post-office, heading directly towards the mountains. Camp was pitched
just above the mouth of Lodore. This twenty-mile canyon bears a very
unsavory reputation, having a descent of 425 feet in that short
distance, the greater part of the fall occurring in a space of
twelve miles. This would mean wild water somewhere!
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“WE STOPPED AT ONE HAY RANCH CLOSE TO THE UTAH-COLORADO LINE.”]
We were camped on a spot recently occupied by some engineers of
the United States Conservation Department, who had been trying to
determine if it was feasible to dam the river at this place. The
plan was to flood the hole of Brown’s Park and divert the water
through the mountains by a tunnel to land suitable for cultivation
and in addition, allow the muddy water to settle and so prevent the
vast amount of silt from being washed on down, eventually to the
mouth of the Colorado. The location seemed admirably suited for this
stupendous project. But holes drilled beside the river failed to find
bottom, as nothing but quicksand existed even at a depth of nearly
three hundred feet; and without a strong foundation, such a dam would
be utterly useless.
CHAPTER V
THE BATTLE WITH LODORE
Camp routine was hurriedly disposed of the next morning, Saturday,
September the 23d. Everything was made snug beneath the hatches,
except the two guns, which were too long to go under the decks, and
had to be carried in the open cockpits. “Camp No. 13, at the head of
Lodore,” as it is entered in my journal, was soon hidden by a bend
in the river. The open, sun-lit country, with its pleasant ranches
and its grazing cattle, its rolling, gray, sage-covered hills and its
wild grass and cottonwood-covered bottoms, was left behind, and we
were back in the realm of the rock-walled canyon, and beetle-browed,
frowning cliffs with pines and cedars clutching at the scanty ledges.
We paused long enough to make a picture or two, with the hope that
the photographic record would give to others some idea of the
geological and scenic wonder--said to be the greatest known example
of its kind--which lay before us. Here is an obstructing mountain
raised directly in the river’s path. Yet with no deviation whatever
the stream has cut through the very centre of the peak! The walls are
almost sheer, especially at the bottom, and are quite close together
at the top. A mile inside the mountain on the left or east side of
the gorge is 2700 feet high. Geologists say that the river was here
first and that the mountain was slowly raised in its pathway--so
slowly that the river could saw away and maintain its old channel.
The quicksand found below the present level would seem to indicate
that the walls were once even higher than at present, and that a
subsidence had taken place after the cutting.
The river at the entrance of this rock-walled canyon was nothing
alarming, four small rapids being passed without event. Then a fifth
was reached that looked worse. The _Edith_ was lined down. This was
hard work, and dangerous too, owing to the strength of the current
and the many rocks; so I concluded that my own boat, the _Defiance_,
must run the rapid. Jimmy went below, with a life-preserver on a
rope. Emery stood beside the rapid with a camera and made a picture
as I shot past him. Fortunately I got through without mishap. I
refused to upset even to please my brother.
We were beginning to think that Lodore was not so bad after all.
Rapid followed rapid in quick succession, and all were run without
trouble; then we came to a large one. It was Upper Disaster Falls;
so named by Major Powell, for it was here that one of his boats was
wrecked on his first voyage of exploration. This boat failed to
make the landing above the rapid and was carried over. She struck a
rock broadside, turned around and struck again, breaking the boat
completely in two. This boat was built of ¾-inch oak reënforced with
bulkheads. When this fact is taken into consideration, some idea may
be had of the great power of these rapids. The three men who occupied
the boat saved themselves by reaching an island a short distance
below.
This all happened on a stage of water much higher than the present
one, so we did not let the occurrence influence us one way or the
other, except to make us careful to land above the rapid. We found
a very narrow channel between two submerged boulders, the water
plunging and foaming for a short distance below, over many hidden
rocks. Still, there was only one large rock near the lower end that
we greatly feared, and by careful work that might be avoided.
The _Edith_ went first and grazed the boulder slightly, but no harm
was done as E. C. held his boat well in hand. I followed, and struck
rocks at the same instant on both sides of the narrow channel with my
oars. It will be remembered that we ran all these dangerous rapids
facing downstream. The effect of this was to shoot the ends of both
oars up past my face. The operator said that I made a grimace just as
he took a picture of the scrimmage.
We landed on the island below and talked of camping for the night, as
it was getting late; but the island so rocky and inhospitable that
we concluded to try the lower part of the rapid. This had no descent
like the upper end; but it was very shallow, and we soon found
ourselves on rocks, unable to proceed any farther. It took an hour of
hard labour to work our heavy boats safely to the shore.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
REMARKABLE ENTRANCE TO LODORE CANYON.]
We had been hoping for a rest the next day--Sunday--but the island
was such a disagreeable place to camp that it seemed necessary to
cross to the mainland at least. A coil of strong, pliable wire
had been included in our material. Here was a chance to use it to
advantage. The stream on the left side of the island could be waded,
although it was very swift; and we managed to get the wire across and
well fastened at both ends. Elevating the wire above the water with
cross-sticks, our tent and camp material were run across on a pulley,
and camp was pitched a hundred yards below, on the left shore of the
river.
There were fitful showers in the afternoon, and we rested from our
labour, obtaining a great deal of comfort from our tent, which was
put up here for the third time since leaving Green River City.
Always, when the weather was clear, we slept in the open.
Monday, the 25th, found us at the same camp. Having concluded that
Disaster Falls was an ideal place for a moving picture, we sent
the balance of the material across on the pulley and wire, making
a picture of the operation; stopping often because it continued to
shower. Between showers we resumed our work and picture making.
The picture was to have been concluded with the operation of lining
the boat across. E. C. stood on the shore about sixty feet away,
working with the camera; Jimmy was on the island, paying out the
rope; while I waded in the water, holding the bow of the boat as I
worked her between the rocks. Having reached the end of the rope, I
coiled it up, advising Jimmy to go up to a safe crossing and join
my brother while I proceeded with the boat. All was going well, and
I was nearing the shore, when I found myself suddenly carried off
my feet into water beyond my depth, and drifting for the lower end
of the rapid. Meanwhile I was holding to the bow of the boat, and
calling lustily to my brother to save me. At first he did not notice
that anything was wrong, as he was looking intently through the
finder. Then he suddenly awoke to the fact that something was amiss,
and came running down the boulder-strewn shore, but he could not
help me, as we had neglected to leave a rope with him. Things were
beginning to look pretty serious, when the boat stopped against a
rock and I found myself once more with solid footing under me. It was
too good a picture to miss; and I found the operator at the machine,
turning the crank as I climbed out.
We developed some films and plates that evening, securing some
satisfactory results from these tests. It continued to rain all that
night, with intermittent showers next morning. The rain made little
difference to us, for we were in the water much of the following day
as the boats were taken along the edge of another unrunnable rapid, a
good companion rapid for the one just passed.
This was Lower Disaster Falls, the first of many similar rapids
we were to see, but this was one of the worst of its kind. The
swift-rushing river found its channel blocked by the canyon wall on
the right side, the cliff running at right angles to the course of
the stream. The river, attacking the limestones, had cut a channel
under the wall, then turned and ran with the wall, emerging about
two hundred feet below. Standing on a rock and holding one end of a
twenty-five foot string we threw a stone attached to the other end
across to the opposite wall. The overhanging wall was within two
feet of the rushing river; a higher stage of water would hide the
cut completely from view. Think what would happen if a boat were
carried against or under that wall! We thought of it many times as we
carefully worked our boats along the shore.
Between the delays of rain, with stops for picture making, portaging
our material, and “lining” our boats, we spent almost three days in
getting past the rapids called Upper and Lower Disaster Falls, with
their combined fall of 50 feet in little more than half a mile. On
the evening of September the 26th we camped almost within sight of
this same place, at the base of a 3000-foot sugar-loaf mountain on
the right, tree-covered from top to bottom.
Things were going too easily for us, it seemed; but we were in for a
few reverses. It stormed much of the night and still drizzled when we
embarked on the following morning. The narrow canyon was gloomy and
darkened with shreds of clouds drifting far below the rim. The first
rapid was narrow, and contained some large boulders. The _Edith_ was
caught on one of these and turned on her side, so that the water
flowed in, filling the cockpit. The boat was taken off without
difficulty, and bailed out. We found that the bulkheads failed to
keep the water out of the hatches. Some material from the _Edith_ was
transferred to the _Defiance_. A bed, in a protecting sack of rubber
and canvas, was shoved under the seat and we proceeded.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“THE RIVER CUT A CHANNEL UNDER THE WALLS” AT LOWER DISASTER FALLS.]
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“EVERYTHING WAS WET.”]
Less than an hour later I repeated my brother’s performance, but I
was not so fortunate as he. The _Defiance_ was carried against one
rock as I tried to pull clear of another, and in an instant she
was on her side, held by the rush of water. I caught the gunwale,
and, climbing on to the rock that caused the disaster, I managed to
catch the rope and held the boat. In the meantime Emery was in a
whirlpool below, trying to land on the right side; but was having
a difficult time of it. Jimmy stood on the shore unable to help. The
bed was washed out of the boat and went bobbing over the waves, then
before I knew what had happened, the rope was jerked from my hands
and I was left stranded on my rock. Seeing this, Jimmy ran with all
his might for a pool at the end of the rapid, bravely rescuing the
boat and the bed as well, just as the _Edith_ was landed. A rope was
soon thrown to me, after the inevitable picture was made. Then I
jumped and was pulled to shore.
On making an inventory we found that our guns were lost from the
boat. Being too long to go under the hatches, they had been left in
the cockpit. The _Defiance_ had an ugly rap on the bottom, where she
struck a rock, the wood being smashed or jammed, but not broken out.
Nearly all material in the two boats was wet, so we took everything
out and piled it on a piece of canvas, spread out on the sand. We
worked rapidly, for another storm had been threatening all the
morning.
We were engaged in putting up our little tent when a violent wind
which swept up the canyon, followed by a downpour of rain interrupted
our work; and if anything missed a soaking before, it certainly
received it then. The sand was beaten into our cameras and everything
was scattered helter-skelter over the shore. We were fortunate in
only one respect. The wind was away from the river instead of toward
it. We finally got the tent up, then threw everything into it in an
indiscriminate pile, and waited for the storm to pass. Emery proposed
that we do a song and dance just to show how good we felt; but any
appearance of merriment was rather forced.
Had the builders of the boats been there, we fear they would have
had an uncomfortable half-hour; for nearly all this loss could have
been avoided had our instructions regarding the hatch covers been
followed. And for the sake of their saving a few dollars we had to
suffer!
The rain soon passed and we went to work, first starting a fire and
getting a hurried lunch, for we had not eaten our noon meal, and it
was then 4 P.M. We put up our dark-room tent, then went to work to
find what was saved, and what was lost. We were surprised to find
that all our small films and plates had escaped a soaking. Protected
in tin and cardboard boxes, wrapped with adhesive tape, and covered
with a coating of paraffine melted and poured over them, they had
turned the water in nearly every instance. The motion-picture film
was not so fortunate. The paraffine had worn off the tin boxes in
spots, the water soaked through the tape in some instances, and
entered to the film. One roll, tightly wrapped, became wet on the
edges; the gelatine swelled and stuck to the other film, thus sealing
the inner portion or picture part of the film, so that roll was
saved.
The motion-picture camera was filled with water, mud and sand; and
the other cameras fared likewise. We cleaned them out as best we
could, drying them over small alcohol lamp which we had included in
our duffle. Our job seemed endless. Jimmy had retired early, for he
could help us but little in this work. It rained again in torrents,
and the wind howled about the tent. After midnight, as we still
toiled, a land-slide, loosened by the soaking rains, thundered down
the mountain side about a fourth of a mile below our camp. We hoped
Jimmy would not hear it. We retired soon after this. Smaller slides
followed at intervals, descending over the 3000-foot precipices.
Thunder reverberated through the canyon, and altogether it was a
night long to be remembered. These slides made one feel a little
uncomfortable. “It would be most inconvenient,” as we have heard some
one say, “to wake in the morning and find ourselves wrapped up in a
few tons of earth and rock.”
Emery woke me the next morning to report that the river had risen
about six feet; and that my boat--rolled out on the sand but left
untied--was just on the Point of going out with the water. It had
proven fortunate for us all Emery was a light sleeper! There was no
travelling this day, as the boat had to be repaired. Emery, being the
ship’s carpenter, set to work at once, while Jimmy and I stretched
our ropes back and forth, and hung up the wet clothes. Then we built
a number of fires underneath and soon had our belongings in a steam.
Things were beginning to look cheerful again. The rain stopped, too,
for a time at least.
A little later Jimmy ran into camp with a fish which he had caught
with his hands. It was of the kind commonly called the bony-tail or
humpback or buffalo-fish, a peculiar species found in many of the
rivers of the Southwest. It is distinguished by a small flat head
with a hump directly behind it; the end of the body being round, very
slender, and equipped with large tail-fins. This specimen was about
sixteen inches long, the usual length for a full-grown fish of this
species.
Now for a fish story! On going down to the river we found a great
many fish swimming in a small whirlpool, evidently trying to escape
from the thick, slimy mud which was carried in the water. In a
half-hour we secured fourteen fish, killing most of them with our
oars. There were suckers and one catfish in the lot. You can judge
for yourself how thick the water was, that such mudfishes as these
should have been choked to helplessness. Our captured fish were given
a bath in a bucket of rain-water, and we had a fish dinner.
[Illustration: A COLORADO RIVER SALMON.]
[Illustration: LODORE CANYON AS SEEN FROM BROWN’S PARK.]
In the afternoon we made a test of the water from the river, and
found that it contained 20 per cent of an alkaline silt. When we had
to use this water, we bruised the leaf of a prickly pear cactus,
and placed it in a bucket of water. This method, repeated two or
three times, usually clears the muddiest water. We also dug holes in
the sand at the side of the river. The water, filtering through the
sand, was often clear enough to develop the tests we made with our
films.
Jimmy continued to feel downhearted; and this afternoon he told us
his story. Our surmise about his being homesick was correct, but it
was a little more than that. He had an invalid mother, it seemed,
and, aided by an older brother, he had always looked after the
needs of the family. When the proposition of making the river trip
came up, serious objections were raised by the family; but when the
transportation arrived he had determined to go, in spite of their
objections. Now he feared that his mother would not live, or that we
would be wrecked, and he would not know where to turn, or what to do.
No wonder he felt blue!
All we could do was to promise to help him leave the river at the
very first opportunity. This would quite likely be at Jensen, Utah,
still fifty miles farther downstream.
It continued to rain by spells that night and the next morning. About
11 A.M. we resumed our work on the river. A short distance below our
camp we saw the land-slide which we heard the night before--tons of
earth and shattered rock wrapped about the split and stripped trunks
of a half-dozen pines. The slide was started by the dislodged section
of a sheer wall close to the top of the 2700-foot cliff. We also
saw a boat of crude construction, pulled above the high-water mark;
evidently abandoned a great while before. Any person who had to climb
the walls at that place had a hard job to tackle, although we could
pick out breaks where it looked feasible; there were a few places
behind us where it would be next to impossible. We had only gone
over a few rapids when we found a long pool, with driftwood eddying
upstream, and knew that our run for the day was over--the Triplet
Rapids were ahead of us. We found this rapid to be about a fourth
of a mile long, divided into three sections as its name indicated,
and filled with great boulders at the base of a sheer cliff on the
right--another unrunnable rapid.
Taking the camp material from the boats, we carried it down and
pitched our tent first of all, then, while Emery prepared supper,
Jimmy and I carried the remaining duffle down to camp. One of the
boats was lined down also. Then after supper we enjoyed the first
rest we had taken for some time.
Camp Ideal we called it, and it well deserved the name. At the
bottom of a tree-covered precipice reaching a height of 2700 feet,
was a strip of firm, level sand, tapering off with a slope down to
the water, making a perfect landing and dooryard. A great mass of
driftwood, piled up at the end of the rapid, furnished us with all
fuel we needed with small effort on our part. Our tent was backed
against a large rock, while other flat rocks near at hand made
convenient shelves on which to lay our camp dishes and kettles.
It started to drizzle again that night, but what cared we? With a
roaring fire in front of the tent we all cleaned up for a change,
sewed patches on our tattered garments, and, sitting on our beds,
wrote the day’s happenings in our journals. Then we crawled into our
comfortable beds, and I was soon dreaming of my boyhood days when I
“played hookey” from school and went fishing in a creek that emptied
into the Allegheny River, or climbed its rocky banks; to be awakened
by Jimmy crying out in his sleep,
“There she goes over the rapids.”
Jimmy was soon informed that he and the boats were perfectly safe,
and I was brought back to a realization of the fact that I was not
going to get a “whaling” for going swimming in dog-days; but instead
was holed up in Lodore Canyon, in the extreme northwestern corner of
Colorado.
CHAPTER VI
HELL’S HALF MILE
We began our work the next morning where we left off the night before
by bringing the remaining boat down along the edge of the “Triplets.”
Then, while Emery cooked the breakfast, Jimmy and I “broke camp.”
The beds came first. The air had been released from the mattresses
before we got up,--one way of saving time. A change of dry clothing
was placed with each bed, and they were rolled as tightly as the
two of us could do it, after which they were strapped, placed in a
rubber sack, with a canvas sack over that, both these sacks being
laced at the top. The tent--one of those so-called balloon silk
compositions--made a very small roll; the dark-room tent, with its
three plies of cloth, made the largest bundle of the lot. Everything
had been taken from the boats, and made quite a pile of dunnage, when
it was all collected in a pile ready for loading. After the dishes
were washed they were packed in a box, the smoke-covered pots and
pans being placed in a sack. Everything was sorted and piled before
the loading commenced. An equal division of nearly everything
was made, so that the loss of one boat and its cargo would only
partially cripple the expedition. The photographic plates and films,
in protecting canvas sacks, were first disposed of, being stored in
the tin-lined hatches in the bow of the boats. Two of the smaller
rolls containing bedding, or clothing; a sack of flour, and half of
the cameras completed the loads for the forward compartments. Five or
six tin and wooden boxes, filled with provisions, went into the large
compartments under the stern. A box containing tools and hardware for
the inevitable repairs, and the weightier provisions--such as canned
milk and canned meats--went in first. This served as ballast for the
boats. Then the other provisions followed, the remaining rolls of
bedding and tents being squeezed in on top. This compartment, with
careful packing, would hold as much as two ordinary-sized trunks, but
squeezing it all in through the small hatchway, or opening on top,
was not an easy job. One thing we guarded very carefully from this
time on was a waterproofed sack containing sugar. The muddy water had
entered the top of this sack in our upset, and a liquefied sugar, or
brown-coloured syrup, was used in our coffee and on our breakfast
foods after that. It gradually dried out, and our emptied cups would
contain a sediment of mud in the bottom.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“THE CANYON WAS GLOOMY, AND DARKENED WITH SHREDS OF CLOUDS.”]
Such was our morning routine, although it was not often that
everything was taken from the boats, and it only happened in this
case because we made a portage the night before.
Our work was all undone an hour later, when we came to the sharp
descent known as Hell’s Half Mile. A section of a cliff had fallen
from above, and was shattered into a hundred fragments, large and
small; gigantic rocks were scattered on both shores and through the
river bed, not an orderly array of rocks such as that found at Ashley
Falls, but a riotous mass, looking as though they had been hurled
from the sky above. The stripped trunk of an eight-foot tree, with
roots extending over the river, had been deposited by a recent flood
on top of the principal barrier. All this was found about fifty yards
below the beginning of the most violent descent in Lodore Canyon. It
would have been difficult enough without this last complication; the
barrier seemed next to insurmountable, tired and handicapped with
heavy boats as we were.
With a weary sigh we dropped our boats to the head of the rapid and
prepared to make the portage. Our previous work was as nothing to
this. Rounded limestone boulders, hard as flint and covered with a
thin slime of mud from the recent rise, caused us to slip and fall
many times. Then we dragged ourselves and loads up the sloping walls.
They were cut with gullies from the recent rains; low scraggy cedars
caught at our loads, or tore our clothes, as we staggered along; the
muddy earth stuck to our shoes, or caused our feet to slip from under
us as we climbed, first two or three hundred feet above the water,
then close to the river’s edge. Three-fourths of a mile of such work
brought us a level place below the rapid. It took nine loads to empty
one boat.
Darkness came on before our boats were emptied, so they were securely
tied in quiet water at the head of the rapid, and left for the
morning.
The next day found Emery and me at work on the boats, while Jimmy
was stationed on the shore with the motion-picture camera. This wild
scene, with its score of shooting currents, was too good a view to
miss. With life-preservers inflated and adjusted, Emery sat in the
boat at the oars, pulling against the current, lessening the velocity
with which the boat was carried down toward the main barrier, while
I followed on the shore, holding a rope, and dropped him down, a
little at a time, until the water became too rough and the rocks too
numerous. All directions were given with signals; the human voice
was of little avail in the turmoil. We kept the boats in the water
as long as it was safe to do so, for it greatly lessened the hard
work of a portage. With one end of the boat floating on the water, an
ordinary lift would take the other end over a rock with insufficient
water above it to float the boat. Then the boat was balanced on the
rock, the opposite end was lifted, she was shoved forward and dropped
in the water again and another threatening rock was passed. Foot
by foot we fought our way, now on the shore, now waist deep in the
water below some protecting boulder, threatened every moment by the
whirling water that struggled to drag us into the torrent. The sand
and water collecting in our clothes weighted us down; the chill of
standing in the cold water numbed our limbs. Finally the barrier was
reached and the boats were run out close to the end, and tied in a
quiet pool, while we devised some method of getting them past or over
this obstruction.
Directly underneath and beyond the roots of the tree were large
rounded boulders, covered with slippery mud. Past this barrier the
full force of the water raced, to hurl itself and divide its current
against another rock. It was useless to try to take a boat around
the end of the rock. The boat’s sides, three-eighths of an inch
thick, would be crushed like a cardboard box. If lifted into the
V-shaped groove, the weight of the boats would wedge them and crush
their sides. Fortunately an upright log was found tightly wedged
between these boulders. A strong limb, with one end resting on a rock
opposite, was nailed to this log; a triangle of stout sticks, with
the point down, was placed opposite this first limb, on the same
level, and was fastened to the upright log with still another piece;
and another difficulty was overcome.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“IT TOOK NINE LOADS TO EMPTY ONE BOAT.”]
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“AN UPRIGHT LOG WAS FOUND WEDGED BETWEEN THE BOULDERS.”]
With a short rope fastened to the iron bar or hand-hold on the stern,
this end was lifted on to the cross-piece, the bow sticking into the
water at a sharp angle. The short rope was tied to the stump, so we
would not lose that we had gained. The longer rope from the bow was
thrown over the roots of the tree above, then we both pulled on the
rope, until finally the bow was on a level with the stern. She was
pulled forward, the ropes were loosened and the boat rested on the
cross-pieces. The motion-picture camera was transferred so as to
command a view of the lower side of the barrier, then the boat was
carefully tilted, and slid forward, a little at a time, until she
finally gained headway, nearly jerking the rope from our hands, and
shot into the pool below.
We enjoyed the wildest ride we had experienced up to this time in
running the lower end of this rapid. The balance of the day was spent
in the same camp below the rapid. Our tent was put up in a group of
box elder trees,--the first trees of this species we had seen. Red
cedar trees dotted the rocky slopes, while the larger pines became
scarce at the river’s edge, and gathered near the top of the canyon’s
walls. The dark red rocks near the bottom were covered with a light
blue-tinted stratum of limestone, similar to the fallen rocks found
in the rapid above. In one land-slide, evidently struck with some
rolling rock, lay the body of a small deer. We saw many mountain
sheep tracks, but failed to see the sheep. Many dead fish, their
gills filled with the slimy mud from the recent rise, floated past
us, or lay half buried in the mud. These things were noticed as we
went about our duties, for we were too weary to do any exploring.
The next morning, Monday, October the 2d saw us making arrangements
for the final run that would take us out of Lodore Canyon. No doubt
it was a beautiful and a wonderful place, but none of us seemed sorry
to leave it behind. For ten days we had not had a single day entirely
free from rain, and instead of having a chance to run rapids, it
seemed as if we had spent an entire week in carrying our loads, or in
lining our boats through the canyon. The canyon walls lost much of
their precipitous character as we neared the end of the canyon.
A short run took us over the few rapids that remained, and at a
turn ahead we saw a 300-foot ridge, brilliantly tinted in many
colours,--light and golden yellows, orange and red, purple and
lavender,--and composed of numberless wafer-like layers of rock,
uptilted, so that the broken ends looked like the spines of a
gigantic fish’s back. A sharp turn to the left soon brought us to
the end of this ridge, close to the bottom of a smooth, sheer wall.
Across a wide, level point of sand we could see a large stream, the
Yampa River, flowing from the East to join its waters with those of
the Green. This was the end of Lodore Canyon.
CHAPTER VII
JIMMY GOES OVER THE MOUNTAIN
The Yampa, or Bear River, was a welcome sight to us in spite of its
disagreeable whitish yellow, clay colour; quite different from the
red water of the Green River. The new stream meant more water in the
channel, something we needed badly, as our past tribulations showed.
The recent rise on the Green had subsided a little, but we now had a
much higher stage than when we entered Lodore. Quite likely the new
conditions gave us six feet of water above the low water on which we
had been travelling. Would it increase or diminish our dangers? We
were willing, Emery and I, even anxious, to risk our chances on the
higher water.
Directly opposite the Yampa, the right shore of the Green went up
sheer about 700 feet high, indeed it seemed to overhang a trifle.
This had been named Echo Cliffs by Powell’s party. The cliffs gave a
remarkable echo, repeating seven words plainly when shouted from the
edge of the Yampa a hundred yards away, and would doubtless repeat
more if shouted from the farther shore of the Yampa. Echo Cliffs,
we found, were in the form of a peninsula and terminated just below
this point where we stood, the river doubling back on the other side
of the cliff. On the left side of the river, the walls fell back,
leaving a flat, level space of about twenty-five acres. Here was a
little ranch of which Mrs. Chew had told us. The Chew ranch lay back
from the river on top of the cliffs. We found no one at home here at
this first ranch, but there was evidence of recent habitation. There
were a few peach trees, and a small garden, while beyond this were
two buildings,--little shacks in a dilapidated condition. The doors
were off their hinges and leaned against the building, a few logs
being placed against the doors. Past the dooryard, coming out of a
small canyon above the ranch, ran a little brook; up this canyon was
a trail, the outlet to the ranch above. We camped near the mouth of
the stream.
It had been agreed upon the night before, that we should endeavour
to make arrangements to have Jimmy taken out on horseback over the
mountains. Before looking for the ranch, however, we asked him if he
did not wish to reconsider his decision to leave here. We pointed
out that Jensen, Utah, was only fifty miles away, half that distance
being in quiet water, and that the worst canyon was behind us. But
he said he had enough of the river and preferred to see what could
be done. While I busied myself about camp, he and Emery left for the
ranch.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
ECHO CLIFFS. “THIS WAS THE END OF LODORE.”]
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
END OF ECHO CLIFFS. THE MOUTH OF THE YAMPA RIVER IS ON THE RIGHT.]
About seven o’clock that evening they returned in great spirits.
They had found the ranch without any trouble nearly three miles from
our camp. Mrs. Chew was there and gave them a hearty welcome. She
had often wondered what had become of us. She invited the boys to
remain for supper, which they did. They talked over the matter of
transportation for Jimmy. As luck would have it, Mrs. Chew was going
to drive over to Jensen, and Vernal, Utah, in two days’ time, and
agreed to take Jimmy along.
Early the next morning two boys, one about fourteen years old the
other a little older, rode down from the ranch. Some of their horses
were pastured across the river and they had come after these. After
a short visit they got into the _Edith_ with Emery and prepared to
cross over to the pasture, which was a mile or more downstream. They
were soon out of our sight. Jimmy and I remained at the camp, taking
pictures, packing his belongings, and finding many odd jobs to be
done. In about three hours the boys returned with their horses. The
horses were quite gentle, and they had no difficulty in swimming them
across. A young colt, too feeble to swim, placed its fore feet on its
mother’s flanks and was ferried across in that way. Then they were
driven over a narrow trail skirting the cliff, 300 feet above the
river. No one, looking from the river, would have imagined that any
trail, over which horses could be driven, existed.
The boys informed us that we were expected at the ranch for dinner,
and would listen to no refusal so up we went, although we would have
to make a second trip that day. The view of the ranch was another of
those wonderful scenic changes which we were to meet with everywhere
in this region. The flat on which we stood was simply a pocket, shut
in by the round-domed mountains, with a pass, or an opening, to the
east side. A small stream ran down a mountain side, spreading over
the rocks, and glistening in the sunlight. This same stream passed
the ranch, and ran on down through the narrow canyon up which we had
come. The ranch itself was refreshing. The buildings were new, some
were under construction; but there was considerable ground under
cultivation. Cattle were scattered up the valley, or dotted the rocky
slopes below the mountains. A wild spot this, on the borderland of
the three states. None but people of fortitude, or even of daring,
would think of taking up a homestead in this secluded spot. The same
rumours of the escaped prisoners had drifted in here. It was Mr. Chew
who gave us the information we have previously quoted concerning the
murdered man. He had found the body in the boat, in front of the
post-office. He further stated that others in the mountains would not
hesitate at anything to drive out those who were trying to improve
a homestead as he was doing, and that it was a common event to find
the carcasses of his own horses or cattle which had been ruthlessly
slaughtered. This was the reason for putting the horses across the
river. There they were safe, for none could approach them save by
going past the ranch, or coming through Lodore Canyon.
Mr. Chew also told us of the Snyders, who had lost their boat in
upper Lodore Canyon, and of how he had given them a horse and
provisions to aid them in reaching the settlements. This did not
prevent the elder Snyder from coming back to trap the next year, much
to Mr. Chew’s disgust. He thought one experience should be enough for
any man.
While we were talking, a very old, bearded man rode in on a horse.
He was Pat Lynch, the owner of the little ranch by the river. He was
a real old-timer, having been in Brown’s Park when Major Powell was
surveying that section of the country. He told us that he had been
hired to get some meat for the party, and had killed five mountain
sheep. He was so old that he scarcely knew what he was talking about,
rambling from one subject to another; and would have us listening
with impatience to hear the end of some wonderful tale of the early
days, when he would suddenly switch off on to an entirely different
subject, leaving the first unfinished.
In spite of his years he was quite active, having broken the horses
on which he rode, bareback, without assistance. We were told that he
placed a spring or trap gun in his houses at the river, ready to
greet any prying marauder. The last we saw of him he was on his way to
the post-office, miles away, to draw his pension for service in the
Civil War.
Returning to the transportation of Jimmy, it was settled that the
Chews were to leave early the next morning. They also agreed to take
out our exposed films and plate for us--something we had not counted
on, but too good a chance to lose. We all three returned to the boats
and packed the stuff that was to go out; then went back to the ranch
with Jimmy. It was late--after midnight--when we reached there, and
we did not disturb any one. Jimmy’s blankets were unrolled in the
wagon, so there would be no question about his going out. He was
to go to Jensen, or Vernal, and there await us, keeping our films
until we arrived. We knew they were in good hands. It was with some
difficulty that we found our way back to our camp. The trail was
difficult and it was pitch dark. My boat had been taken down to where
Emery left the _Edith_ when the horses were driven across, and this
extra distance was added to our walk.
[Illustration: MARVELS OF EROSION.]
We were laggard the next morning, and in no hurry to resume our
work. We rearranged our loads in the boats; with one less man and
considerable less baggage as well, they were lighter by far. Our
chances looked much more favourable for an easier passage. Not only
were these things in our favour, but in addition we felt that
we had served our apprenticeship at navigation in rapid water, and
we were just as capable of meeting the rapids to follow as if we
had years of experience to our record. On summing up we found that
the river had dropped 1000 feet since leaving Green River, Wyoming,
and that 5000 feet remained, to put us on a level with the ocean.
Our difficulties would depend, of course, on how this fall was
distributed. Most of the fall behind was found in Lodore and Red
canyons. It was doubtful indeed if any section would have a more
rapid fall than Lodore Canyon.
There is a certain verse of wisdom which says that “Pride goeth
before a fall,” but perhaps it was just as well for us if we were a
little bit elated by our past achievements as long as we had to go
through with the balance of our self-imposed task. Confidence, in
a proper degree, is a great help when real difficulties have to be
surmounted. We were full of confidence that day when we pulled away
about noon into Whirlpool Canyon, Whirlpool Canyon being next on the
list. The camp we were about to leave was directly opposite Lodore
Canyon, where it ran against the upended cliff. The gorgeous colours
were the same as those on the opposite side, and, to a certain
degree, were also found in Whirlpool Canyon.
Our two and a half hours’ dash through the fourteen miles of rapid
water in Whirlpool Canyon put us in a joyful frame of mind. Rapid
after rapid was left behind us without a pause in our rowing, with
only a hasty survey standing on the deck of the boats before going
over. Others that were free from rocks were rowed in bow first, the
big waves breaking over our boats and ourselves. We bailed while
drifting in the quiet stretches, then got ready for the next rapids.
Two large rapids only were looked over from the shore and these were
run in the same manner. We could hardly believe it was true when
we emerged from the mountain so quickly into a little flat park or
valley sheltered in the hills. This was Island or Rainbow Park,
the latter name being suggested by the brilliant colouring of the
rocks, in the mountains to our left. Perhaps the form of the rocks
themselves helped a little, for here was one end of the rainbow of
rock which began on the other side of the mountains. Jagged-edged
canyons looking almost as if their sides had been rent asunder came
out of these mountains. There was very little dark red here except
away on top, 2300 feet above, where a covering of pines made a soft
background for light-cream and gorgeous yellow-coloured pinnacles,
or rocky walls of pink and purple and delicate shades of various
hues. Large cottonwoods appeared again along the river banks, in
brilliant autumn colours, adding to the beauties of the scene.
Back from the river, to the west, stretched the level park, well
covered with bunch-grass on which some cattle grazed, an occasional
small prickly pear cactus, and the ever present, pungent sage.
Verdure-covered islands dotted the course of the stream, which was
quiet and sluggish, doubling back and forth like a serpent over many
a useless mile. Nine miles of rowing brought us back to a point about
three miles from the mouth of Whirlpool Canyon; where the river
again enters the mountain, deliberately choosing this course to one,
unobstructed for several miles, to the right.
The next gorge was Split Mountain Canyon, so named because the stream
divided the ridge length-wise, from one end to the other. It was
short, only nine miles long, with a depth of 2700 feet in the centre
of the canyon. Three miles of the nine were put behind us before we
camped that evening. These were run in the same manner as the rapids
of Whirlpool, scarcely pausing to look them over, but these rapids
were bigger, much bigger. One we thought was just formed or at least
increased in size by a great slide of rock that had fallen since the
recent rains. We just escaped trouble in this rapid, both boats going
over a large rock with a great cresting wave below, and followed
by a very rough rapid. Emery was standing on top of a fifteen-foot
rock below the rapid when I went over, and for a few moments could
see nothing of my boat, hardly believing it possible that I had come
through without a scratch. These rapids with the high water looked
more like rapids we had seen in the Grand Canyon, and were very
unlike the shallow water of a week previous. We had only travelled
a half day, but felt as if it had been a very complete day when we
camped at the foot of a rock slide on the right, just above another
big rapid.
On Thursday, October 5, Camp No. 20 was left behind. The rapid below
the camp was big, big enough for a moving picture, so we took each
other in turns as we ran the rapid. More rapids followed, but these
were not so large. A few sharp-pointed spires of tinted rock lifted
above us a thousand feet or more. Framed in with the branches of the
near-by cottonwood trees, they made a charming picture. Less than
three hours brought us to the end of Split Mountain Canyon, and the
last bad water we were to have for some time. Just before leaving
the canyon, we came to some curious grottos, or alcoves, under the
rock walls on the left shore. The river has cut into these until they
overhang, some of them twenty-five feet or over. In one of these was
a beaver lying on a pile of floating sticks. Although we passed quite
close, the beaver never moved, and we did not molest it.
Another shower greeted us as we emerged into the Uinta Valley as it
is called by the Ute Indians. This valley is eighty-seven miles long.
It did not have the fertileness of Brown’s Park, being raised in bare
rolling hills, runnelled and gullied by the elements. The water was
quiet here, and hard rowing was necessary to make any progress. We
had gone about seven miles when we spied a large placer dredge close
to the river. To the uninitiated this dredge would look much like a
dredging steamboat out of water, but digging its own channel, which
is what it really does.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“HERE WAS ONE END OF THE RAINBOW OF ROCK WHICH BEGAN ON THE OTHER
SIDE OF THE MOUNTAINS.”]
Great beds of gravel lay on either side of the river and placer gold
in large or small quantities, but usually the latter is likely to
exist in these beds. When a dredge like the one found here is to
be installed, an opening is made in the river’s bank leading to an
excavation which has been made, then a large flatboat is floated in
this. The dredging machinery is on this float, as well as most of the
machinery through which the gravel is passed accompanied by a stream
of water; then with quicksilver and rockers of various designs, the
gold is separated from the gravel and sand.
Numerous small buildings were standing near the dredge, but the
buildings were empty, and the dredge lay idle. We saw many fresh
tracks of men and horses and were welcomed by a sleek, well-fed
cat, but found the place was deserted. All buildings were open and
in one was a telephone. We were anxious to hear just where we were,
so we used the telephone and explained what we wanted to know. The
“Central” informed us that we were about nine miles from Jensen, so
we returned to the boats and pulled with a will through a land that
was no longer barren, but with cozy ranch houses, surrounded by rows
of stately poplars, bending with the wind, for it was storming in
earnest now. About six o’clock that evening we caught sight of the
top of the Jensen bridge; then, as we neared the village, the sun
broke through the pall of cloud and mist, and a rainbow appeared in
the sky above, and was mirrored in the swollen stream, rainbow and
replica combined nearly completing the wondrous arc. There was a
small inn beside the bridge, and arrangements were made for staying
there that night. We were told that Jim and Mrs. Chew had passed
through Jensen about four hours before we arrived. They had left word
that they would go on through to Vernal, fifteen miles distant from
the river.
CHAPTER VIII
AN INLAND EXCURSION
Jensen was a small village with two stores and a post-office. A few
scattered houses completed the village proper, but prosperous-looking
ranches spread out on the lowland for two or three miles in all
directions on the west side of the river. Avenues of poplar trees,
fruit trees, and fields of alfalfa gave these ranches a different
appearance from any others we had passed.
We found some mail awaiting us at the post-office, and were soon
busily engaged in reading the news from home. We conversed awhile
with the few people at the hotel, then retired, but first made
arrangements for saddle horses for the ride to Vernal.
Next morning we found two spirited animals, saddled and waiting for
us. We had some misgivings concerning these horses, but were assured
that they were “all right.” A group of grinning cowboys and ranch
hands craning their necks from a barn, a hundred yards distant,
rather inclined us to think that perhaps our informant might be
mistaken. Nothing is more amusing to these men of the range than to
see a man thrown from his horse, and a horse that is “all right” for
one of them might be anything else to persons such as we who never
rode anything except gentle horses, and rode those indifferently. We
mounted quickly though, trying to appear unconcerned. The horses,
much to our relief, behaved quite well, Emery’s mount rearing back on
his hind legs but not bucking. After that, all went smoothly.
Leaving the irrigated ranches on the bottom lands, we ascended a low,
rolling mesa, composed of gravel and clay, unwatered and unfertile,
from which we caught occasional glimpses of the mountains and the
gorge from which we had emerged, their brilliant colours softened
and beautified by that swimming blue haze which belongs to this
plateau region. Then we rode down into the beautiful Ashley Valley,
watered by Ashley Creek, a good-sized stream even after it was used
to irrigate all the country for miles above. The valley was several
miles wide. The stream emptied into the river about a mile below
Jensen. All parts of the valley were under cultivation. It is famous
for its splendid deciduous fruits, apples, pears, peaches; splendid
both in appearance and flavour. It excelled not only in fruits,
however, but in all products of the field as well. “Vernal honey,”
which is marketed far and near, has a reputation for fine flavour
wherever it is known. A thick growth of the bee-blossom or bee-weed
crowded the road sides and hugged the fences. The fragrance of
the flower can easily be noticed in the sweetness of the honey. The
pity of it was that bushels of fruit lay rotting on the ground, for
there were no transportation facilities, the nearest railroad being
90 miles distant. There were stock ranches too, with blooded stock in
the fence-enclosed fields. Some of the splendid horses paced along
beside us on the other side of the fence. We heard the rippling song
of some meadow-larks this day, the only birds of this species we
remember having seen on the Western plateaus.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
PAT LYNCH: THE CANYON HERMIT.]
All these ranches were laid out in true Mormon style, that is,
squared off in sections, fenced, and planted with shade-trees
before being worked. The roads are usually wide and the streets
exceptionally so. Except in the business streets, a large garden
usually surrounds the home building, each family endeavouring to
raise all their own vegetables, fruits, and poultry. They usually
succeed.
The shade trees about Vernal were Lombardy poplars. They attained a
height that would give ample shade under most conditions, and too
much when we were there, for the roads were very muddy, although they
had dried in all other sections. Nearing Vernal, we passed Nathan
Galloway’s home, a cozy place set back some distance from the road.
We had hoped to meet Galloway and have an opportunity of talking over
his experiences with him, but found he was absent on a hunting trip,
in fact was up in the mountains we had come through.
On nearing the town we were greeted by a busy scene. Numerous wagons
and horses stood in squares reserved for that purpose, or were tied
to hitching posts in front of the many stores. Ranchers and their
families were everywhere in evidence; there were numerous prospectors
in their high-topped boots just returning from the mountains, and oil
men in similar garb, muddy from head to foot. Later we learned that
oil had recently been discovered about forty miles distant, this fact
accounting for much of the activity.
The town itself was a surprise; we found it to be very much
up-to-date considering its isolated position. Two of the streets were
paved and oiled and were supplied with drinking fountains. There were
two prosperous looking banks, two well-stocked and up-to-date drug
stores, several mercantile stores, and many others, all busy. Many of
the buildings were of brick; all were substantial.
Near a hotel we observed a group of men surrounding some one who was
evidently keeping them interested. On approaching them we found it
was Jimmy, giving a graphic description of some of our difficulties.
His story was not finished, for he saw us and ran to greet us, as
pleased to see us as we were to see him. He had little idea we would
be along for two or three days and naturally was much surprised.
On entering the hotel we were greeted by an old Grand Canyon friend,
a civil engineer named Duff, who with a crew of men had been mapping
the mountains near Whirlpool Canyon. You can imagine that it was a
gratifying surprise to all concerned to find we were not altogether
among strangers, though they were as hospitable as strangers could
be. The hotel was a lively place that night. There was some musical
talent among Duff’s men, and Duff himself was an artist on the piano.
Many of the young people of the town had dropped in that evening,
as some one had passed the word that there might be an impromptu
entertainment at the hotel. There was. Duff played and the boys sang.
Jimmy was himself again and added his rich baritone. The town itself
was not without musical talent, and altogether it was a restful
change for us.
Perhaps we should have felt even better if we had been dressed
differently, for we wore much the same clothes as those in which we
did our work on the river--a woollen shirt and overalls. Besides,
neither Emery nor I had shaved since starting, and it is quite likely
that we looked just a little uncouth. Appearances count for little
with these people in the little-settled districts, and it is a
common enough sight to them to see men dressed as we were. They did
everything they could to make us feel at ease. As one person remarked,
“The wealthiest cattle man, or the owner of the richest mine in the
country, usually looks worse than all others after a month on the
range or in the hills.”
If wealth were indicated on an inverse ratio to one’s good
appearance, we should have been very wealthy indeed. We felt as if it
would take us a week to get rested and lost little time in getting
to bed when the party broke up. We imagine most of the residents of
Vernal were Mormons. It is part of their creed to give “the stranger
within their gates” a cordial welcome. This however, was accorded to
us, not only among the Mormons, but in every section of our journey
on the Green and Colorado rivers.
The following day was a busy one. Arrangements had been made with a
local photographer to get the use of his dark room, and we proceeded
to develop all plates and many of our films. These were then to be
packed and shipped out. We were informed at the local express office,
that it might be some time before they would go, as the recent rains
had been very bad in Colorado and had washed out most of the bridges.
Vernal had passenger transportation to the railway--a branch of the
D. & R. G. running north into Colorado--by automobile, the route
lying across the Green and also across the White River, a tributary
to the Green. A steel structure had been washed away on the White
River, making it impossible to get through to the station. The high
water below here must have been a flood, judging from all reports.
About ten bridges, large and small, were reported as being washed
away on numerous branch streams leading into the Green River.
Fortunately Vernal had another means of communication. This was a
stage running southwest from Vernal, over 125 miles of rough road to
Price, Utah--Price being a station on the main line of the D. & R. G.
Jimmy concluded that he would take this road, in preference to the
uncertainties of the other route, and noon that day found him on
board the stage. He promised to write to us, and was anxious to hear
of our success, but remarked that when he once got home he would
“never leave San Francisco again.” There was a final hand clasp, a
cheer from the small group of men, and the stage drove away with
Jimmy, a happy boy indeed.
Our work on the developing progressed well, and with very satisfying
results on the whole, and that evening found us with all plates
packed ready for shipment to our home. The moving-picture film was
also packed and shipped to be developed at once. This was quite a
load off our minds.
The following day we prepared to depart, but did not leave until the
afternoon. Then, with promises to let them know the outcome of our
venture, we parted from our friends and rode back to Jensen.
We planned on leaving the following morning. The river had fallen one
foot since we had landed, and we were anxious to have the benefit of
the high water. We were told that it was six feet above the low-water
stage of two weeks before.
On Monday, October the 9th, after loading our boat with a new stock
of provisions,--in which was included a few jars of honey, and a few
dozen of eggs, packed in sawdust,--we began what might be called
the second stage of our journey; the 175-mile run to Blake or Green
River, Utah, a little west of south from Jensen. Ten miles below
Jensen was a ferry used by the auto and wagons. Here also was a
ranch house, with a number of people in the yard. We were invited to
land and did so. They had been informed by telephone of our coming
and were looking for us; indeed they had even prepared dinner for
us, hoping we would reach there in time. Not knowing all this, we
had eaten our cold lunch half an hour before. The women were busy
preserving fruits and garden truck, and insisted on us taking two or
three jars along. This was a welcome change to the dried fruit, which
was one of our principal foods. These people made the usual request--
“Drop us a post card if you get through.”
The memory of these people that we met on this journey will linger
with us as long as we live. They were always anxious to help us or
cheer us on our way.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
EACH BED WAS PLACED IN A RUBBER AND A CANVAS SACK. PHOTO TAKEN IN
MARBLE CANYON.]
We passed a dredge that evening and saw a man at work with a team
and scoop shovel, the method being to scoop up the gravel and
sand, then dump it in an iron car. This was then pulled by the horses
to the top of a derrick up a sloping track and dumped. A stream of
water pumped up from the river mixed with the gravel, the entire mass
descended a long zigzagging chute. We paused a few minutes only and
did not examine the complicated process of separating the mineral
from the gravel. This dredge had been recently installed. We camped
early, half a mile below the dredge.
Emery had been feeling poorly all this day. He blamed his
indisposition to having eaten too many good things when in Vernal--a
break in training, as it were. This was our excuse for a short run
that day. I played nurse and gave him some simple remedy from the
little supply that we carried; and, after he was in his sleeping bag,
I filled some hot-water bags for the first time on the trip, and soon
had him feeling quite comfortable.
A hard wind came up that night, and a little rain fell. I had a busy
half-hour keeping our camp from being blown away. The storm was
of short duration, and all was soon quiet again. On the following
morning Emery felt so good that I had a hard time in keeping up with
him and I wondered if he would ever stop. Towards evening, after a
long pull, we neared the reservation of the Uinta Utes, and saw a few
Indians camped away from the river. Here, again, were the cottonwood
bottoms, banked by the barren, gravelly hills. We had been informed
that there was a settlement called Ouray, some distance down the
river, and we were anxious to reach it before night. But the river
was sluggish, with devious and twisting channels, and it was dark
when we finally landed at the Ouray ferry.
CHAPTER IX
CANYON OF DESOLATION
Ouray, Utah, consisted of a large store to supply the wants of the
Indians and ranchers, a small hotel, and a few dwellings. The agency
proper was located some distance up the Uinta River, which stream
emptied into the Green, just below Ouray.
Supper was taken at the hotel, after which we visited a young man in
charge of the store, looking over his curios and listening to tales
of his life here among these Indians. They were peaceable enough now,
but in years gone by were a danger to be reckoned with. We slept in
our own beds close to our boats by the river.
The following morning, when we were ready to leave, a small crowd
gathered, a few Indians among them. Most of the Indians were big,
fat, and sleepy-looking. Apparently they enjoyed the care of the
government. A mile below we passed several squaws and numerous
children under some trees, while on a high mound stood a lone buck
Indian looking at us as we sped by, but without a single movement
that we could see. He still stood there as we passed from sight a
mile below. It might be interesting if one could know just what was
in his mind as he watched us.
A mile below the Uinta River, which entered on the west, we passed
another stream, the White River, entering from the east, the two
streams adding considerable water to the Green River. We passed
another idle dredge, also some mineral workings in tunnels, and saw
two men camped on the shore beside them. We saw numerous Indian
carvings on the rocks, but judged they were recent because horses
figured in most of them. In all the open country the river was
fringed with large cottonwood trees, alders and willow thickets. A
number of islands followed, one of them very symmetrical in shape,
with cottonwood trees in the centre, while around the edge ran a
fringe of bushes looking almost like a trimmed hedge. The autumn
colouring added to its beauty. The hedge, as we called it, was
dark red, brown, yellow, and green; the cottonwoods were a light
yellow. After we had passed this island, a deer, confused by our
voices, jumped into the river fifty yards behind us, leaping and
swimming as he made for the shore. We had no gun, but Emery had
the moving-picture camera at hand, and turned it on the deer. The
hour was late, however, and we had little hopes of its success as a
picture. The country back from the river stretched in rolling, barren
hills 200 or 300 feet high--a continuation of the Bad Lands of Utah,
which lay off to the west.
With the next day’s travel the hills lost some of their barren
appearance. Some cattle were seen early in the afternoon of the
following day. We passed a cattle man working at a ferry, who had
just taken some stock across, which other men had driven on ahead. He
was busy, so we did not interrupt him, merely calling to him from the
boats, drifting meanwhile with the current. Soon we saw him riding
down the shore and waited for him to catch up. He invited us to camp
with him that evening, remarking that he had “just killed a beef.” We
thanked him, but declined, as it was early and we had only travelled
a short distance that day. We chatted awhile, and he told us to look
out for rapids ahead. He was rather surprised when he learned that we
had started at Green River, Wyoming, and had already come through a
few rapids.
“Where are you going to stop?” he then asked.
On being told that our destination was Needles, California, he threw
up his hands with an expressive gesture, then added soberly, “Well,
boys, I sure wish you luck,” and rode back to his camp.
We had difficulty in making a suitable landing that evening, as
the high water had deposited great quantities of black mud over
everything, making it very disagreeable when we left the boats. We
finally found a place with less mud to wade through than on most of
the banks seen, and tied up to the roots of a tree.
While lying in our beds that night looking at the starlit sky--such
a sky as is found only on these high plateaus--we discovered a comet
directly above us. An astronomer would have enjoyed our opportunities
for observing the heavens. No doubt this comet had been heralded far
and wide, but we doubt if any one saw it to better advantage than did
we.
Later, some coyotes, possibly in chase of a rabbit, gave vent to
their yodeling cry, and awakened us from a sound sleep. They were in
a little lateral canyon, which magnified and gave a weird, organ-like
echo to their calls long after the coyotes themselves had passed from
hearing.
The nights were getting warmer as we travelled south, but not so warm
that we were bothered with insects. The same reason accounted for the
absence of snakes or scorpions, for no doubt there were plenty of
both in warm weather in this dry country. When there was no wind, the
silence of the nights was impressive, with no sound save the lapping
of the water against the banks. Sometimes a bird in the trees above
would start up with a twitter, then quiet down again. On occasions
the air chambers in our boats would contract on cooling off, making
a noise like the boom of a distant gun, every little sound being
magnified by the utter stillness of the night.
There were other times when it was not so quiet. Hundreds of birds,
geese, ducks and mud-hens had been seen the last few days. Also there
were occasional cranes and herons, over a thousand miles from their
breeding place at the mouth of the Colorado. As dusk settled, we
would see these birds abandon their feeding in the mud, and line up
on the shore, or on an island, and go to sleep. Occasionally one of
these birds would start up out of a sound sleep with an unearthly
squawk. Possibly an otter had interrupted its dreams, or a fox had
pounced on one as it slept. It may be that it was only a bad dream
of these enemies that caused their fright, but whatever it was, that
first call would start up the entire flock and they would circle in
confusion like a stampeded herd of cattle, their discordant cries
putting an end to the stillness of the night. Finally they would
settle down in a new spot, and all would be quiet once more.
We saw a few birds that were strangers to us,--water birds which we
imagined belonged to the salt water rather than the inland streams,
making a little excursion, perhaps, away from their accustomed
haunts. One type we saw on two occasions, much like a gull, but
smaller, pure white as far as we could tell, soaring in graceful
flight above the river.
Camp No. 26 was close to the beginning of a new canyon. The country
had been changing in appearance from rather flat plains to small
bare hills, gradually increasing in height with smooth, rounded
sides, and going up to a point, usually of a dirty clay colour, with
little vegetation of any kind on them. The river for miles past had
swept in long graceful curves, the hills being close to the river on
the outside of the curve, leaving a big flat on the inside. This flat
gradually sloped back to hills of an equal height to those opposite.
Then the curve would reverse, and the same conditions would be met
with again, but on opposite sides from the previous bend. After
passing a creek the evening before, the hills became higher, and
from our camp we could see the first place where they came close on
both sides to the river. We felt now that our beautiful tree-covered
canyons were behind us and from now on we would be hemmed in by the
great eroded canyons of the Southwest. We were sorry to leave those
others behind, and could easily understand why Major Powell had named
this Desolation Canyon.
As the canyon deepened the cliffs were cut into fantastic shapes,
as is usual in rocks unprotected by vegetation. There was a hard
rock near the top in places, which overhung a softer formation. This
would erode, giving a cornice-like effect to the cliffs. Others
were surmounted by square towers and these were capped by a border
of little squares, making the whole look much like a castle on the
Rhine. For half a day we found no rapids, but pulled away on a good
current. The walls gradually grew higher and were more rugged; a
few trees cropped out on their sides. At noon our boats were lashed
together and lunch was eaten as we drifted. We covered about three
miles in this way, taking in the scenery as we passed. We saw a great
stone arch, or natural bridge, high on a stupendous cliff to our
right, and wondered if any one had ever climbed up to it. Our lunch
was no more than finished when the first rapid was heard ahead of us.
Quickly unlashing our boats, we prepared for strenuous work. Friday
the 13th proved to be a lucky day; thirteen large rapids and thirteen
small ones were placed behind us before we camped at Rock Creek--a
splashing, laughing mountain stream, no doubt containing trout.
The following morning we found there was a little ranch house below
us, but, though we called from our boats, no one came out. We
wondered how any one could reach this out-of-the-way place, as a road
would be almost an impossibility. Later we found a well-constructed
trail on the right-hand side all the way through the canyon. We saw
a great many cattle travelling this trail. Some were drinking at the
river when we swept into view. Our boats filled them with alarm, and
they scrambled for the hillsides, looking after us with frightened
expressions as we left them to the rear.
We put in a full day at running rapids, one after another, until
fifteen large ones were passed, no count being kept of the smaller
ones. Some of these rapids resembled dams from six to twelve feet
high, with the water falling abruptly over a steep slope. Others were
long and rough, with swift water in places. Above one of these we had
landed, then found we could get a much better view from the opposite
shore. Emery crossed and landed, I followed. We had been having heavy
winds all day. When crossing here I was caught by a sudden gust of
wind and carried to the head of the rapid. I heard Emery call, “Look
out for the big rock!” then over I went. The wind and water together
had turned my boat sideways, and try as I would I could not get it
turned around. I saw the rock Emery referred to straight ahead of
me. It was about fifteen feet square and about fourteen feet from
the shore, with a powerful current shooting between the rock and the
shore. It seemed as if I must strike the rock broadside, and I ceased
my struggle, but held out an oar with both hands, hoping to break
the blow. But it never came. The water struck this rock with great
force, then rebounded, and actually kept me from even touching the
rock with the oar, but it caught the boat and shot it through the
narrow channel, bow first, as neatly as it could possibly be done,
then, turned the boat around again as I scrambled to regain my hold
on both oars. No other rocks threatened, however, and besides filling
the cockpit with water, no damage was done.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
E. L. KOLB. EMERY KOLB.
“NOW FOR A FISH STORY!”]
Emery had no desire to follow my passage and crossed back to the
other side. Shooting over the upper end of the rapid, his boat ran
up on a rounded rock, the stern sticking high in the air; it paused
a moment, the current slowly turning it around as if on a pivot, and
the boat slid off; then down he came lurching and plunging, but with
no more difficulty. Many times in such places as these we saw the
advantage of our flat-bottomed boats over one with a keel, for these
would surely be upset when running up on such a rock.
CHAPTER X
HOSPITABLE RANCHMEN
The appearance of Desolation Canyon had changed entirely in the
lower end. Instead of a straight canyon without a break, we were
surrounded by mountain peaks nearly 2500 feet high, with many side
canyons between them and with little level parks at the end of the
canyons beside the river. The tops were pine-covered; cedars clung to
the rocky slopes. Some of these peaks were not unlike the formations
of the Grand Canyon, as seen from the inner plateau, and the red
colouring was once more found in the rocks.
These peaks were gradually dropping down in height; and at one open
section, with alfalfa and hay fields on gently sloping hillsides, we
found a small ranch, the buildings being set back from the river.
We concluded to call and found three men, the rancher and two
young cowboys, at work in a blacksmith shop. Emery had forgotten
to remove his life-preserver, and the men looked at him with some
astonishment, as he was still soaking wet from the splashing waves of
the last rapid. When I joined him he was explaining that no one had
been drowned, and that we were merely making an excursion down the
river. Mr. McPherson, the rancher, we learned, owned all the cattle
seen up the river. The little cabin at our last camp was a sort of
headquarters for his cowboys. The cattle were just being driven from
the mountains before the snows came, and were to be wintered here in
the canyons. Some of these cattle were much above the usual grade of
range cattle, being thoroughbreds, although most of them ran loose
on the range. This ranch had recently lost a valuable bull which
had been killed by a bear up in the mountains--not unlike similar
conflicts in more civilized sections of the country. McPherson camped
on this bear’s trail for several days and nights before he finally
hung his pelt on a tree. He was a large cinnamon-coloured grizzly.
Four other bears had been killed this same year, in these mountains.
McPherson’s home had burned down a short time before our visit, and
his family had removed to Green River, Utah. A number of tents were
erected, neatly boarded up, and we were informed that one of these
was reserved for company, so we need not think of going any farther
that day. These men, while absolutely fearless in the saddle, over
these rough mountain trails, had “no use for the river” they told
us; in fact, we found this was the usual attitude of the cattle men
wherever we met them. McPherson’s respect for the river was not
without reason, as his father, with two others, had been drowned
while making a crossing in a light boat near this point, some
years before. Some accident occurred, possibly the breaking of a
rowlock, and they were carried into a rapid. McPherson’s men found
it necessary to cross their cattle back and forth, but always took
the wise precaution to have on some life-preservers. These cork
preservers hung in the blacksmith shop, where they could easily be
reached at a moment’s notice.
Desolation Canyon, with a slight breaking down of the walls for a
short distance only, gave place to Gray Canyon below the McPherson
Ranch. A good-sized mountain stream, part of which irrigated the
ranch above, found its way through this division. We had been told
that more rapids lay ahead of us in Gray Canyon, but they were not
so numerous in our next day’s travel. What we did find were usually
large, but we ran them all without difficulty. About noon we met
five men in a boat, rowing up the stream in a long, still stretch.
They told us they were working on a dam, a mile or two below. They
followed us down to see us make the passage through the rapid
which lay above their camp. The rapid was long and rocky, having a
seventeen-foot fall in a half mile. We picked our channel by standing
up in the boat before entering the rapid and were soon at the bottom
with no worse mishap than bumping a rock or two rather lightly. We
had bailed out and were tying our boats, when the men came panting
down the hill up which they had climbed to see us make this plunge. A
number of men were at work here, but this being Sunday, most of them
had gone to Green River, Utah, twenty-one miles distant.
Among the little crowd who came down to see us resume our rowing
was a lady and a little girl who lived in a rock building, near the
other buildings erected for the working-men. Emery showed the child
a picture of his four-year-old daughter, Edith, with her mother--a
picture he always carried in a note-book. Then he had her get in the
boat with him, and we made a photograph of them. They were very good
friends before we left.
In a few hours we emerged from the low-walled canyon into a level
country. A large butte, perhaps 700 feet high, stood out by itself, a
mile from the main cliffs. This was Gunnison Butte, an old landmark
near the Gunnison trail. We were anxious to reach Blake or Green
River, Utah, not many miles below, that evening; but we failed to
make it. There were several rapids, some of them quite large, and
we had run them all when we came to a low dam that obstructed our
passage, While looking it over, seeing how best to make a portage, a
young man whom we had just seen remarked:
“Well, boys, you had better tie up and I will help you in the
morning.”
It was 5.30 then, and we were still six miles from Green River, so
we took his advice and camped. On seeing our sleeping bags, tightly
strapped and making rather a small roll, he remarked:
“Well, you fellows are not Mormons; I can tell by the size of your
beds!”
Our new friend gave the name of Wolverton. There was another man
named Wilson who owned a ranch just below the dam. Both of these men
were much interested in our experiences. Wolverton had considerable
knowledge of the river and of boats; very little persuasion would
have been necessary to have had him for a companion on the balance
of our journey. But we had made up our minds to make it alone, now,
as it looked feasible. Both Wilson and Wolverton knew the country
below Green River, Utah, having made surveys through much of the
surrounding territory. Wolverton said we must surely see his father,
who lived down the river and who was an enthusiast on motor boats. A
few minutes’ work the next morning sufficed to get our boats over the
dam. The dam was constructed of loose rock and piles, chinked with
brush and covered with sloping planks,--just a small dam to raise
the water for irrigation purposes. Much of the water ran through the
canal; in places the planks were dry, in others some water ran over.
The boats, being unloaded, were pulled up on these planks, then slid
into the water below. Wilson had a large water wheel for irrigation
purposes, the first of several such wheels which we were to see this
day. These wheels, twenty feet or more in height,--with slender
metal buckets each holding gallons of water, fastened at intervals
on either side,--were placed in a swift current, anchored on the
shore to stout piles, or erected over mill-races cut in the banks.
There they revolved, the buckets filling and emptying automatically,
the water running off in troughs above the level of the river back
to the fertile soil. Some of these wheels had ingenious floating
arrangements whereby they accommodated themselves to the different
stages of a rising or falling river. We took a few pictures of
Wilson’s place before leaving. He informed us that he had telephoned
to certain people in Green River who would help us in various ways.
Two hours’ rowing, past many pretty little ranches, brought us to the
railroad bridge, a grateful sight to us. A pumping plant stood beside
the bridge under charge of Captain Yokey, one of Wilson’s friends.
Yokey owned a large motor boat, which was tied up to the shore. Our
boats were left in his charge while we went up to the town, a mile
distant. Another of Wilson’s friends met us, and secured a dark room
for us so that we could do a little developing and we prepared for
work on the following day.
That night a newspaper reporter hunted us out, anxious for a story.
We gave him what we had, making light of our previous difficulties,
which were exciting enough at times; but owing to the comparatively
small size of the stream, we seldom thought our lives were in
any great danger. The papers made the most of these things, and
the stories that came out had little semblance to our original
statements. We have since learned that no matter how much one
minimizes such things, they are seldom published as reported.
We put in a busy day unpacking new films and plates developing all
films from the smaller cameras and sending these home. A new stock of
provisions had to be purchased, enough for one month at least, for
there was no chance of securing supplies until we reached our canyon
home, about 425 miles below.
We had a valuable addition to our cargo in two metal boxes that had
been shipped here, as it was not possible to get them before leaving
Wyoming. These cases or trunks were sent from England, and were
water-tight, if not waterproof, there being a slight difference. Well
constructed, with rubber gaskets and heavy clamps, every possible
precaution had been taken, it seemed, to exclude the water and still
render them easy of access. They were about thirty inches long,
fifteen wide, and twelve high, just the thing for our photographic
material. Up to this time everything had to be kept under the decks
when in bad water. These boxes were placed in the open section in
front of us, and were thoroughly fastened to the ribs to prevent
loss, ready to be opened or closed in a moment, quite a convenience
when pictures had to be taken hurriedly.
The following day we went over the boats, caulking few leaks. The
bottoms of the boats were considerably the worse for wear, owing to
our difficulties in the first canyons. We got some thin oak strips
and nailed them on the bottom to help protect them, when portaging.
Sliding the boats on the scouring sand and rough-surfaced rock was
hard on the half-inch boards on the bottom of the boats. This work
was all completed that day, and everything was ready for the next
plunge.
In passing the station, we noticed the elevation above sea-level was
placed at 4085 feet, and remembered that Green River, Wyoming, was
6080 feet, showing that our descent in the past 425 miles had been
close to 2000 feet. We had not found it necessary to line or portage
any rapids since leaving Lodore Canyon; we were hopeful that our good
luck would continue.
Nothing was to be feared from what remained of the Green River, 120
miles or more, for motor boats made the journey to its junction
with the Grand, and we were told even ascended the Grand for some
distance. Below this junction was the Colorado River, a different
stream from the one we were still to navigate.
Before leaving, we ate a final hearty breakfast at the boarding-house
where we had been taking our meals. A number of young men, clerks
in some of the business houses here, were among the boarders. The
landlady a whole-souled German woman and an excellent cook, was
greatly worried over their small appetites, thinking it was a
reflection on her table. She remarked that she hoped we had good
appetites, and I am sure she had no complaint to make so far as we
were concerned. We had never stinted ourselves when on the river, but
the change and the rest seemed to give us an abnormal appetite that
could not be satisfied, and we would simply quit eating because we
were ashamed to eat more. Less than half an hour after one of these
big meals, I was surprised to see my brother in a restaurant with a
sheepish grin on his face, and with a good-sized lunch before him.
CHAPTER XI
WONDERS OF EROSION
_Thursday, October the 19th_. We embarked again with two of our
new-found friends on board as passengers for a short ride, their
intention being to hunt as they walked back. They left us at a ranch
beside the San Rafæl River, a small stream entering from the west.
They left some mail with us to be delivered to Mr. Wolverton, whose
son we had met above. About 20 miles below Green River we reached his
home. Judging by a number of boats--both motor and row boats--tied
to his landing, Mr. Wolverton was an enthusiastic river-man. After
glancing over his mail, he asked how we had come and was interested
when he learned that we were making a boating trip. He was decidedly
interested when he saw the boats and learned that we were going to
our home in the Grand Canyon. His first impression was that we were
merely making a little pleasure trip on the quiet water.
Going carefully over the boats, he remarked that they met with his
approval with one exception. They seemed to be a little bit short
for the heavy rapids of the Colorado, he thought. He agreed that our
experience in the upper rapids had been good training, but said there
was no comparison in the rapids. We would have a river ten times as
great as in Lodore to contend with; and in numerous places, for short
distances, the descent was as abrupt as anything we had seen on the
Green. Wolverton was personally acquainted with a number of the men
who had made the river trip, and, with the one exception of Major
Powell’s expeditions, had met all the parties who had successfully
navigated its waters. This not only included Galloway’s and Stone’s
respective expeditions, which had made the entire trip, but included
two other expeditions which began at Green River, Utah, and had gone
through the canyons of the Colorado.[4] These were the Brown-Stanton
expedition, which made a railroad survey through the canyons of
the Colorado; and another commonly known as the Russell-Monnette
expedition, two of the party making the complete trip, arriving at
Needles after a voyage filled with adventure and many narrow escapes.
Mr. Wolverton remarked that every one knew of those who had navigated
the entire series of canyons, but that few people knew of those who
had been unsuccessful. He knew of seven parties that had failed to
get through Cataract Canyon’s forty-one miles of rapids, with their
boats, most of them never being heard of again.
These unsuccessful parties were often miners or prospectors who
wished to get into the comparatively flat country which began about
fifty miles below the Junction of the Green and the Grand rivers.
Here lay Glen Canyon, with 150 miles of quiet water. Nothing need
be feared in this, or in the 120 miles of good boating from Green
River, Utah, to the junction. Between these two points, however, lay
Cataract Canyon, beginning at the junction of the two rivers. Judging
by its unsavory record, Cataract Canyon was something to be feared.
Among these parties who had made short trips on the river was one
composed of two men. Phil Foote was a gambler, stage robber, and
bad man in general. He had broken out of jail in Salt Lake City
and, accompanied by another of similar character, stole a boat at
Green River, Utah, and proceeded down the river. Soon after entering
Cataract Canyon, they lost their boat and provisions. Finding a tent
which had been washed down the river, they tore it into strips and
constructed a raft out driftwood, tying the logs together with the
strips of canvas. Days of hardship followed, and starvation stared
them in the face; until finally Foote’s partner gave up, said he
would drown himself. With an oath Foote drew his revolver, saying
he had enough of such cowardice and would save him the trouble. His
companion then begged for his life, saying he would stick to the
end, and they finally got through to the Hite ranch, which lay a
short distance below. They were taken care of here, and terminated
their voyage a short distance beyond, going out over land. Foote was
afterwards shot and killed while holding up a stage in Nevada.
The Hite ranch also proved to be a place of refuge for others, the
sole survivors of two other parties who were wrecked, one person
escaping on each occasion. Hite’s ranch, and Lee’s Ferry, 140 miles
below Hite, had mail service. We had left instructions at the
post-office to forward our mail to one or the other of these points.
These were also the only places on our 425-mile run to Bright Angel
Trail where we could expect to see any people, so we were informed.
We were about to descend into what is, possibly, the least inhabited
portion of the United States of America.
[Illustration: THE CENTER OF THREE SYMMETRICAL FORMATIONS IN THE
DOUBLE BOW KNOT.]
A party of civil engineers working here, joined us that evening at
Wolverton’s home. A young man in the party asked us if we would
consent to carry a letter through with us and mail it at our
destination. He thought it would be an interesting souvenir for the
person to whom it was addressed. We agreed to do our best, but would
not guarantee delivery. The next morning two letters were given us to
mail, and were accepted with this one reservation. Before leaving
Mr. Wolverton showed us his motor boat with much pardonable pride. On
this boat he sometimes took small parties down to the beginning of
the Colorado River, and up the Grand, a round trip of three hundred
miles or more. The boat had never been taken down the Colorado for
the simple reason that the rapids began almost immediately below the
junction.
Wolverton, while he had never been through the rapids in a boat,
had followed the river on foot for several miles and was thoroughly
familiar with their nature. On parting he remarked,
“Well, boys, you are going to tackle a mighty hard proposition, but
I’m sure you can make it if you are only careful. But look out and go
easy.”
Wolverton was no novice, speaking from much experience in bad water,
and we were greatly impressed by what he had to say.
Five uneventful days were spent in Labyrinth and Stillwater canyons,
through which the Green peacefully completed its rather violent
descent. In the upper end we usually found rough water in the
canyons and quiet water in the open sections. Here at least were two
canyons, varying from 300 feet at their beginning to 1300 in depth,
both without a rapid. The first of these was Labyrinth Canyon, so
named from its elaborately winding course as well as its wonderful
intricate system of dry, lateral canyons, and its reproduction in
rock of architectural forms, castles, arches, and grottos; even
animals and people were represented in every varying form.
Our Sunday camp was beside what might be called a serpentine curve or
series of loops in the river. This was at the centre of what is known
as the Double Bow Knot, three rounded loops, very symmetrical in
form, with an almost circular formation of flat-topped rock, a mile
or more in diameter in the centre of each loop. A narrow neck of rock
connects these formations to the main mesa, all being on the same
level, about 700 feet above the river. The upper half of the rock
walls was sheer; below was a steep boulder-covered slope. The centre
formation is the largest and most perfect, being nearly two miles in
diameter and almost round; so much so, that a very few minutes are
necessary to climb over the narrow neck which connects this formation
to the mesa. It took 45 minutes of hard rowing on a good current to
take us around this one loop. The neck is being rapidly eroded, two
hundred feet having disappeared from the top, and at some distant day
will doubtless disappear entirely, making a short cut for the river,
and will leave a rounded island of rock standing seven hundred feet
above the river. A bird’s-eye view of the three loops would compare
well in shape to the little mechanical contrivance known as the “eye”
in the combination of “hook and eye.” All women and many men will get
a clear idea the shape of the Double Bow Knot from this comparison.
We recorded an interesting experiment with the thermometer at this
camp, showing a great variety of temperatures, unbelievable almost
to one who knows nothing of conditions in these semi-arid plateaus.
A little ice had formed the night before. Under a clear sky the
next day at noon, our thermometer recorded 54 degrees in the shade,
but ran up to 102 degrees in the sun. At the same time the water
in the river was 52 degrees Far. The effect of being deluged in
ice-cold waves, then running into deep sunless canyons with a cold
wind sweeping down from the snow on top, can be easier imagined than
described. This is what we could expect to meet later.
The colouring of the rocks varied greatly in many localities, a light
red predominating. In some places the red rock was capped by a gray,
flint-like limestone; in others this had disappeared, but underneath
the red were regular strata of various-coloured rocks, pink, brown,
light yellow, even blue and green being found in two or three
sections.
The forms of erosion were as varied as the rock itself, each
different-coloured rock stratum presenting a different surface.
In one place the surface was broken into rounded forms like the
backs of a herd of elephants. In others we saw reproductions of
images, carved by the drifting sands--a Diana, with uplifted arm,
as large as the Goddess of Liberty; a Billiken on a throne with a
hundred worshippers bowed around. Covered with nature-made ruins and
magnificent rock structures, as this section is, it is not entirely
without utility. It is a grazing country. Great numbers of contented
cattle, white-faced, with red and white, or black and white patches
of colour on their well-filled hides, were found in the open spaces
between the sheer-walled cliffs. Dusty, well-beaten trails led down
through these wide canyons, trails which undoubtedly gained the top
of the level, rocky plateau a few miles back from the river. As
is usual in a cattle country at the end of the summer season, the
bunch-grass, close to the water supply--which in this case happened
to the river--was nibbled close to the roots. The cattle only came
here to drink, then travelled many miles, no doubt, to the better
grazing on the upper plateaus. The sage, always gray, was grayer
still, with dust raised by many passing herds. There was a band
of range horses too, those splendid wild-eyed animals with kingly
bearing, and wind-blown tails and manes, lean like a race-horse,
strong-muscled and tough-sinewed, pawing and neighing, half defiant
and half afraid of the sight of men, the only thing alive to which
they pay tribute.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
THE BUTTES OF THE CROSS.]
It is a never ending source of wonder, to those unacquainted with the
semi-arid country, how these animals can exist in a land which, to
them, seems utterly destitute and barren. To many such, a meadow
carpeted with blue grass or timothy is the only pasture on which
grazing horses or grazing cattle can exist; the dried-out looking
tufts of bunch-grass, scattered here and there or sheltered at the
roots of the sage, mean nothing; the grama-grass hidden in the
grease-wood is unnoticed or mistaken for a weed.
But if the land was bare of verdure, the rock saved it from being
monotonous. Varied in colour, the red rock predominated--blood-red
at mid-day, orange-tinted at sunset, with gauze-like purple shadows,
and with the delicate blue outlines always found in the Western
distances; such a land could never be called uninteresting.
The banks of the stream, here in the open, were always green. From
an elevation they appeared like two emerald bands through a land of
red, bordering a stream the tint of the aged pottery found along its
shores. We were continually finding new trees and strange shrubs.
Beside the cottonwoods and the willows there was an occasional
wild-cherry tree; in the shrubs were the service-berry, and the
squaw-berry, with sticky, acid-tasting fruit. The cacti were small,
and excepting the prickly pear were confined nearly altogether to a
small “pin-cushion” cactus, growing a little larger as we travelled
south. And always in the mornings when out of the deep canyons
the moist, pungent odour of the sage greeted our nostrils. It is
inseparable from the West. There is no stuffy germ-laden air there,
out in the sage; one is glad to live, simply to breathe it in and
exhale and breathe again.
In Stillwater Canyon the walls ran up to 1300 feet in height, a
narrow canyon, with precipitous sides. Occasionally we could see
great columns of rock standing on top of the mesa. Late one evening
we saw some small cliff dwellings several hundred feet above the
river, and a few crude ladders leaning against the cliff below the
dwellings. A suitable camp could not be made here, or we would have
stopped to examine them. The shores were slippery with mud and
quicksands, and there was no fire-wood in sight. From here to the
end of the canyons we would have to depend almost entirely on the
drift-piles for fire-wood.
A landing was finally made where a section of a cliff had toppled
from above, affording a solid footing leading up to the higher bank.
We judged from our maps that we were within a very few miles of
the Colorado River. Here some footprints and signs of an old boat
landing, apparently about a week old, were seen in the sand. This
surprised us somewhat, as we had heard of no one coming down ahead of
us.
CHAPTER XII
COULD WE SUCCEED?
An hour or two at the oars the next morning sufficed to bring us to
the junction of the Green and the Grand rivers. We tied up our boats,
and prepared to climb out on top, as we had a desire to see the view
from above. A mile back on the Green we had noticed a sort of canyon
or slope breaking down on the west side, affording a chance to reach
the top. Loading ourselves with a light lunch, a full canteen, and
our smaller cameras, we returned to this point and proceeded to climb
out. Powell’s second expedition had climbed out at this same place;
Wolverton had also mentioned the fact that he had been out; so we
were quite sure of a successful attempt before we made the climb.
The walk close to the river, over rocks and along narrow ledges, was
hard work; the climb out was even more so. The contour maps which
we carried credited these walls with 1300 feet height. If we had
any doubt concerning the accuracy of this, it disappeared before we
finally reached the top. What we saw, however, was worth all the
discomfort we had undergone. Close to the top, three branches of dry,
rock-bottomed gullies, carved from a gritty, homogeneous sandstone,
spread out from the slope we had been climbing. These were less
precipitous. Taking the extreme left-hand gully, we found the climb
to the top much easier. At the very end we found an irregular hole a
few feet in diameter, not a cave, but an opening left between some
immense rocks, touching at the top, seemingly rolled together.
Gazing down through this opening, we were amazed to find that we
were directly above the Colorado itself. It was so confusing at
first that we had to climb to the very top to see which river it
was, I contending that it was the Green, until satisfied that I was
mistaken. The view from the top was overwhelming, and words can
hardly describe what we saw, or how we were affected by it.
We found ourselves on top of an irregular plateau of solid rock,
with no earth or vegetation save a few little bushes and some very
small cedars in cracks in the rocks. Branching canyons, three or four
hundred feet in depth, and great fissures ran down in this rock at
intervals. Some were dark and crooked, and the bottom could not be
seen. Between these cracks, the rock rounded like elephants’ backs
sloping steeply on either side. Some could be crossed, some could
not. Others resembled a “maze,” the puzzle being how to get from one
point to another a few feet away. The rock was a sandstone and
presented a rough surface affording a good hold, so there was little
danger of slipping. We usually sat down and “inched” our way to the
edge of the cracks, jumping across to little ledges when possible,
always helping each other.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“THE LAND OF STANDING ROCKS WAS LIKE A MAZE.”]
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
“ROCKS OVERHANGING THE COLORADO’S GORGE.” NOTE FIGURE.]
The rock at the very edge of the main canyon overhung, in places 75
to 100 feet, and the great mass of gigantic boulders--sections of
shattered cliffs--on the steep slope near the river gave evidence of
a continual breaking away of these immense rocks.
To the north, across the canyon up which we had climbed, were a great
number of smooth formations, from one hundred to four hundred feet
high, rounded on top in domes, reminding one of Bagdad and tales from
the Arabian Nights. “The Land of Standing Rocks,” the Utes call it.
The rock on which we stood was light gray or nearly white; the river
walls at the base for a thousand feet above the river were dark red
or chocolate-brown; while the tops of the formations above this level
were a beautiful light red tint.
But there were other wonders. On the south side of the Colorado’s
gorge, miles away, were great spires, pointing heavenward, singly and
in groups, looking like a city of churches. Beyond the spires were
the Blue Mountains, to the east the hazy LaSalle range, and nearest
of all on the west just north of the Colorado lay the snow-covered
peaks of the Henry Mountains. Directly below us was the Colorado
River, muddy, swirling, and forbidding. A mile away boomed a rapid,
beyond that was another, then the river was lost to view.
Standing on the brink of all this desolation, it is small wonder if
we recalled the accounts of the disasters which had overtaken so many
others in the canyon below us. Many who had escaped the water had
climbed out on to this death trap, as it had proven to be for them,
some to perish of thirst and starvation, a few to stagger into the
ranch below the canyon, a week or more after they had escaped from
the water. Small wonder that some of these had lost their reason. We
could only conjecture at the fate of the party whose wrecked boat had
been found by the Stone expedition, a few miles below this place,
with their tracks still fresh in the sand. No trace of them was ever
found.
For the first time it began to dawn on us that we might have tackled
a job beyond our power to complete. Most of the parties which had
safely completed the trip were composed of several men, adding much
to the safety of the expedition, as a whole. Others had boats much
lighter than ours, a great help in many respects. Speaking for
myself, I was just a little faint-hearted, and not a little overawed
as we prepared to return to the boats.
While returning, we saw evidences of ancient Indians--some broken
arrow-heads, and pottery also, and a small cliff ruin under a
shelving rock.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
THIRTEEN HUNDRED FEET ABOVE THE GREEN RIVER. NOTE FIGURE.]
What could an Indian find here to interest him! We had found neither
bird, nor rabbit; not even a lizard in the Land of Standing Rocks.
Perhaps they were sun worshippers, and wanted an unobstructed view of
the eastern sky. That at least could be had, in unrivalled grandeur,
here above the Rio Colorado.
The shadows were beginning to lengthen when we finally reached our
boats at the junction. Camp was made under a large weeping willow
tree, the only tree of its kind we remembered having seen on the
journey.
While Emery prepared a hasty meal I made a few arrangements for
embarking on the Colorado River the next morning. We were prepared
to bid farewell to the Green River--the stream that had served us
so well. In spite of our trials, even in the upper canyons, we had
found much enjoyment in our passage through its strange and beautiful
surroundings.
From a scenic point of view the canyons of the Green River, with
their wonderful rock formations and stupendous gorges, are second
only to those of the Colorado itself. It is strange they are so
little known, when one considers the comparative ease with which
these canyons on the lower end can be reached. Some day perhaps,
surfeited globe-trotters, after having tired of commonplace scenery
and foreign lands, will learn what a wonderful region this is, here
on the lower end of the Green River.
Then no doubt, Wolverton, or others with similar outfits, will
find a steady stream of sight-seers anxious to take the motor boat
ride down to this point, and up to Moab, Utah, a little Mormon town
on the Grand River. A short ride by automobile from Moab to the D.
& R. G. railway would complete a most wonderful journey; then the
transcontinental journey could be resumed.
So I mused, as I contrived an arrangement of iron hooks and oak
sticks to hold on a hatch cover, from which all the thumb screws
had been lost. More than likely my dream of a line of sight-seeing
motor boats will be long deferred; or they may even meet the fate of
Brown’s and Stanton’s plans for a railroad down these gorges.
As a reminder of the fate which overtakes so many of our feeble
plans, we found a record of Stanton’s survey on a fallen boulder,
an inscription reading “A 81 + 50, Sta. D.C.C. & P.R.R.,” the
abbreviations standing for Denver, Colorado Canyons, and Pacific
Railroad. It is possible that the hands that chiselled the
inscription belonged to one of the three men who were afterwards
drowned in Marble Canyon.
Emery--being very practical--interrupted my revery and plans for
future sight-seers by announcing supper. The meal was limited in
variety, but generous in quantity, and consisted of a dried-beef
stew, fried potatoes, and cocoa. A satisfied interior soon dispelled
all our previous apprehensiveness. We decided not to run our rapids
before we came to them.
The water still gave indications of being higher than low-water mark,
although it was falling fast on the Green River. Each morning, for
three days previous to our arrival at the junction, we would find the
water about six inches lower than the stage of the evening before.
Strange to say, we gained on the water with each day’s rowing, until
we had almost overtaken the stage of water we had lost during the
night. More than likely we would have all the water we needed under
the new conditions which were before us.
Beginning with the Colorado River, we made our journals much more
complete in some ways, giving all the large rapids a number and
describing many of them in detail. This was done, not only for our
own satisfaction, but for the purpose of comparison with others who
had gone through, for many of these rapids have histories.
It was often a question, when on the Green River, where to draw the
line when counting a rapid; this was less difficult when on the
Colorado. While the descent was about the same as in some of the
rapids above, the increased volume of water made them look and act
decidedly different. We drew the line, when counting a rapid, at
a descent having a decided agitation of the water, hidden rocks,
or swift descent and with an eddy or whirlpool below. Major Powell
considered that many of these drops in the next canyon were above the
ordinary rapid, hence the name, Cataract Canyon.
At one of the camps below Green River, Utah, my boat had been
christened the _Defiance_, by painting the name on the bow. After
leaving the Green we usually referred to the boats by their
respective names, Emery being in the _Edith_, I in the _Defiance_.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
THE JUNCTION OF THE TWO RIVERS. THE GRAND RIVER IS ON THE RIGHT.
NOTE BOATS.]
CHAPTER XIII
A COMPANION VOYAGER
Thursday morning, October the 26th, found Emery feeling very poorly,
but insisting on going ahead with our day’s work, so Camp No. 34
was soon behind us. We were embarked on a new stream, flowing
west-southwest, with a body of water ten times the size of that which
we had found in the upper canyons of the Green. Our sixteen-foot
boats looked quite small when compared with the united currents of
the Green and the Grand rivers. The Colorado River must have been
about 350 feet wide here just below the junction, with a three-mile
current, and possibly twenty-five feet deep, although this is only a
guess. The Grand River appeared to be the higher of the two streams,
and had a decidedly red colour, as though a recent storm was being
carried down its gorges; while the colour of the Green was more of a
coffee colour--coffee with a little cream in it.
A fourth of a mile below the junction the two currents began to mix,
with a great ado about it, with small whirlpools and swift eddies,
and sudden outbursts from beneath, as though a strangled current was
struggling to escape from the weight which overpowered it. The boats
were twisted this way and that, and hard rowing was necessary to
carry us down to the steadied current, and to the first rapid, which
we could hear when yet far above it.
Soon we were running rapids again, and getting a lot of sport out of
it. There were some rocks, but there was water enough so that these
could be avoided. If one channel did not suit us, we took another,
and although we were drenched in every rapid, and the cockpit was
half filled each time, it was not cold enough to cause us any great
discomfort, and we bailed out at the end of each rapid, then hurried
on to tackle the next. Each of these rapids was from a fourth to a
third of a mile in length. The average was at least one big rapid
to the mile. When No. 5 was reached we paused a little longer, and
looked it over more carefully than we had the others. It had a short,
quick descent, then a long line of white-topped waves, with a big
whirlpool on the right. There were numerous rocks which would take
careful work to avoid. The waves were big,--big enough for a motion
picture,--so Emery remained on shore with both the motion-picture
camera and the 8 × 10 plate camera in position, ready to take the
picture, while I ran my boat.
At the head of this rapid we saw footprints in the sand, but not made
with the same shoe as that which we had noticed above the junction.
We had also seen signs of a camp, and some fishes’ heads above this
point, and what we took to be a dog’s track along the shore.
At the head of the next rapid we saw them again, but on opposite
side of the river, and could see where boat had been pulled up on
the sand. This next rapid was almost as bad as the one above it, but
with a longer descent, instead of one abrupt drop. The following
rapid was so close that we continued along the shore to look it over
at the same time, saving a stop between the two rapids. The shores
were strewn with a litter of gigantic boulders--fallen sections of
the overhanging cliffs. We found more of this in Cataract Canyon
than in any of the canyons above. This was partly responsible for
the violence of the rapids, although the descent of the river would
make rough water even if there were no boulders. Working back along
the shore, we were suddenly electrified into quick action by seeing
the _Edith_ come floating down the river, close to the shore and
almost on the rapid. Emery was a short distance ahead and ran for the
_Defiance_; I caught up a long pole and got on a projecting rock,
hoping I might steer her in. She passed me, and was soon in the midst
of the rapid before Emery had launched the boat. Three gigantic
boulders extended above the water about fifty feet from shore, with
a very crooked channel between. Down toward these boulders came the
_Edith_, plunging like a thing possessed. How it was done I could
never tell, but she passed through the crooked channel without once
touching, and continued over the rapid. Meanwhile Emery had run the
other side and had gained on the _Edith_, but only caught her when
close to the next rapid; so he turned her loose and came to the shore
for me.
Emery had not been feeling his best and I advised him to remain on
shore while I took the boat. As we made the change we again observed
the boat, bounding through the next rapid, whirling on the tops of
the waves as though in the hands of a superhuman juggler. I managed
to overtake her in a whirlpool below the rapid, and came to shore
for her captain. He was nearly exhausted with his efforts; still he
insisted on continuing. A few miles below we saw some ducks, and shot
at them with a revolver. But the ducks flew disdainfully away, and
landed in the pool below.
By 4.30 P.M. we were twelve miles below the junction, a very good
day’s run considering the kind of water we were travelling on, and
the amount of time we spent on the shore. We had just run our twelfth
rapid, and were turning the boats around, when we saw a man back from
the shore working over a pile of boxes which he had covered with a
piece of canvas. A boat was tied to the water’s edge. We called to
him, and he answered, but did not seem nearly as much interested
in seeing companion travellers as we were, and proceeded with his
work. We landed, and, to save time, introduced ourselves, as there
seemed to be a certain aloofness in his manner. He gave the name of
Smith--with some hesitation, we thought.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Kolb Bros._
LOOKING WEST INTO CATARACT CANYON.]
[Illustration: CHARLES SMITH AND HIS BOAT.]
Smith was about medium size, but looked tough and wiry; he had a
sandy complexion, with light hair and mustache. He had lost one eye,
the other was that light gray colour that is usually associated with
indomitable nerve. He had a shrewd, rather humorous expression, and
gave one the impression of being very capable. Dressed in a neat
whipcord suit, wearing light shoes and a carefully tied tie, recently
shaved--a luxury we had denied ourselves, all this time--he was
certainly an interesting character to meet in this out-of-the-way
place. We should judge he was a little over forty years old; but
whether prospector, trapper, or explorer it was hard to say. Some
coyote skins, drying on a rock, would give one the impression that he
was the second, with a touch of the latter thrown in. These coyotes
were responsible for the tracks we had seen, and had mistaken for
dog tracks, but of all the canyons we had seen he was in the last
place where we would expect to find a trapper. The coyotes evidently
reached the river gorge through side canyons on the left, where we
had seen signs of ancient trails. Apart from that there was no sign
of animal life. With the last of the wooded canyons, the signs of
beaver had disappeared. There were a few otter tracks, but they are
wily fellows, and are seldom trapped. While there are laws against
the trapping of beaver, they seldom prevent the trappers from taking
them when they get the chance; they are only a little more wary of
strangers; the thought occurred to us that this trapper may have
secured some beaver in the open sections above, and mistrusted us for
this reason.
It was too late to go any farther that evening, so we camped a
hundred yards below him, close to where our boats were pulled out.
At this place there was a long, wide flat in the canyon, with plenty
of driftwood, so we saw no reason why we should quarrel with our
neighbour. Smith accepted our invitation to supper, stating that he
had just eaten before we arrived, but enjoyed some pineapple which we
had kept for some special occasion, and which was served for dessert.
Over the table we became better acquainted, and, after learning what
we were doing, he recounted his experiences. He told us he had left
Green River, Utah, a month before, and had been trapping as he came
along. He knew there was a canyon, and some rapids below, but had no
idea they were so bad, and thought they were about ended. No one had
warned him, for he had told no one what he intended doing. He had
bought an old water-logged boat that had bee
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