We came, presently, to a place called Jacob’s Ladder, where the path ceased to be an inclined plane and became a series of huge steps, each about as high as an ordinary table. Here we all dismounted, for the mules could not safely descend with such burdens. It was comical to watch them. My Sam would stand on each step for several minutes, gazing about as though enjoying the scenery. Then, as if struck by a sudden notion, he would drop his fore legs to the next step, and with hind legs still at the higher elevation, pause in further contemplation. At length it would occur to this deliberate animal that his hind legs, after all, really belonged on the same level with the other two, and he would suddenly drop them down and again become rapt in thought. This performance was repeated on every step for the entire descent of more than one hundred feet.
After traveling about three hours, during which we had descended three thousand feet below the rim, we came to Indian Garden, where an Indian family once found a fertile spot on which they could practice farming in their own crude way. Here we came to some tents belonging to a camping-party, and I found the solution of a problem that had puzzled me earlier in the day. Standing on the rim and looking across the cañon I had seen what appeared to be a newspaper lying on the grass. I knew it must be three or four miles from where I stood, and that a newspaper would be invisible at that distance, yet I could not imagine how any natural object could appear white and rectangular so far away. Presently I saw some tiny objects moving slowly like a string of black ants, and realized that these must be some early trail party. We met them at Indian Garden. They proved to be prospectors and the “newspaper” was in reality the group of tents.
We had now left the steep zigzag path, and riding straight forward over a great plateau, we came to the brink of some granite cliffs, where we could at last see the Colorado River, thundering through the gorge thirteen hundred feet below. And what a river it is! From the rim we could only catch an occasional glimpse, looking like a narrow silver ribbon, threading in and out among a multitude of strangely fashioned domes and turrets. Here we saw something of its true character, though still too far away to feel its real power—a boiling, turbulent, angry, and useless stream dashing wildly through a barren valley of rock and sand, its waters capable of generating millions of horse-power, but too inaccessible to be harnessed, and its surface violently resisting the slightest attempt at navigation; a veritable anarchist of a river! For more than a thousand miles it rushes through a deep cañon toward the sea, falling forty-two hundred feet between its source and mouth and for five hundred miles of its course tumbling in a series of five hundred and twenty cataracts and rapids—an average of slightly more than one to every mile.
Think of the courage of brave Major Powell and his men, who descended this terrible river for the first time, and you have a subject for contemplation as sublime as the cañon itself. In the spring of 1869, when John W. Powell started on his famous expedition, the Grand Cañon was totally unknown. Hunters and prospectors had seen enough to bring back wonderful stories. Parties had ventured into the gorge in boats and had never been heard of again. The Indians warned him that the cañon was sacred to the gods, who would consider any attempt to enter it an act of disobedience to their wishes and contempt for their authority, and vengeance would surely follow. The incessant roar of the waters told of many cataracts and it was currently reported that the river was lost underground for several hundred miles. Undaunted by these fearful tales, Major Powell, who had seen service in the Civil War, leaving an arm on the battlefield of Shiloh, determined, nevertheless, to descend the river. He had long been a student of botany, zoölogy, and mineralogy and had devoted two years to a study of the geology of the region.
With nine other men as his companions, he started from Green River City, Wyoming, on the 24th of May, with one light boat of pine and three heavy ones built of oak. Nothing could be more modest than his report to the Government, yet it is an account of thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes, day by day, almost too marvelous for belief. Yet there is not the slightest doubt of its authenticity in every detail. At times the swift current carried them along with the speed of an express train, the waves breaking and rolling over the boats, which, but for the water-tight compartments, must have been swamped at the outset.
When a threatening roar gave warning of another cataract they would pull for the shore and prepare to make a portage. The boats were unloaded and the stores of provisions, instruments, etc., carried down to some convenient point below the falls. Then the boats were let down, one by one. The bow line would be taken below and made fast. Then with five or six men holding back on the stern line with all their strength, the boat would be allowed to go down as far as they could hold it, when the line would be cast off, the boat would leap over the falls, and be caught by the lower rope. Again and again, day after day throughout the entire summer, this hard work was continued. In the early evenings and mornings Major Powell, with a companion or two, would climb to the top of the high cliffs, towering to a height of perhaps two thousand or three thousand feet above the river, to make his observations, frequently getting into dangerous positions where a man with two arms would have difficulty in clinging to the rocks, and where any one but a man of iron nerve would have met instant death.
Day by day they faced what seemed certain destruction, dashing through rapids, spinning about in whirlpools, capsizing in the breakers, and clinging to the upturned boats until rescued or thrown up on some rocky islet, breaking their oars, losing or spoiling their rations until they were nearly gone, and toiling incessantly every waking hour. One of the boats was completely wrecked before they had crossed the Arizona line, and one man, who barely escaped death in this accident, left the party on July 5, declaring that he had seen danger enough. The remaining eight, whether from loyalty to their chief or because it seemed impossible to climb to the top of the chasm, continued to brave the perils of the river until August 27, when they had reached a point well below the mouth of the Bright Angel River. Here the danger seemed more appalling than at any previous time. Lateral streams had washed great boulders into the river, forming a dam over which the water fell eighteen or twenty feet; then appeared a rapid for two or three hundred yards on one side, the walls of the cañon projecting sharply into the river on the other; then a second fall so great that its height could not be determined, and beyond this more rapids, filled with huge rocks for one or two hundred yards, and at the bottom a great rock jutting halfway across the river, having a sloping side up which the tumbling waters dashed in huge breakers. After spending the afternoon clambering among the rocks to survey the river and coolly calculating his chances, the dauntless Powell announced his intention to proceed. But there were three men whose courage was not equal to this latest demand, and they firmly declined the risk.
On the morning of the 28th, after a breakfast that seemed like a funeral, the three deserters—one can scarcely find the heart to blame them—climbed a crag to see their former comrades depart. One boat is left behind. The other two push out into the stream and in less than a minute have safely run the dangerous rapids, which seemed bad enough from above, but were in reality less difficult than many others previously experienced. A succession of rapids and falls are safely run, but after dinner they find themselves in another bad place. The river is tumbling down over the rocks in whirlpools and great waves and the angry waters are lashed into white foam. There is no possibility of a portage and both boats must go over the falls. Away they go, dashing and plunging, striking the rocks and rolling over and over until they reach the calmer waters below, when as if by miracle it is found that every man in the party is uninjured and both the boats are safe. By noon of the next day they have emerged from the Grand Cañon into a valley where low mountains can be seen in the distance. The river flows in silent majesty, the sky is bright overhead, the birds pour forth the music of a joyous welcome, the toil and pain are over, the gloomy shadows have disappeared, and their joy is exquisite as they realize that the first passage of the long and terrible river has been safely accomplished and all are alive and well.
But what of the three who left them? If only they could have known that safety and joy were little more than a day ahead! They successfully climbed the steep cañon walls, only to encounter a band of Indians who were looking for cattle thieves or other plunderers. They could give no other account of their presence except to say they had come down the river. This, to the Indian mind, was so obviously an impossibility that the truth seemed an audacious lie and the three unfortunate men were murdered.
We were obliged to content ourselves with a view of the river from this height, though I had expected to descend to the river’s edge and felt correspondingly disappointed. We had started too late for so long a trip and now it was time to turn back. Looking back at the solid and apparently perpendicular rock, nearly a mile high, it seemed impossible that any one could ascend to the top. It is only when one looks out from the bottom of this vast chasm at the huge walls on every side that he begins to realize its awfulness. We are mere specks in the bottom of a gigantic mould wherein some great mountain range might have been cast. There are great mountains all about us and yet we are not on a mountain but in a vast hole. The surface of the earth is above us. A great gash has been cut into it, two hundred miles long, twelve to fifteen miles wide, and a mile deep, and we are in the depths of that frightful abyss with—to all appearance—no possible means of escape. Perpendicular cliffs of enormous height, which not even a mountain sheep could climb, hem us in on every side. The shadows are growing deep and it seems that the day must be nearly done. Yet we remount our mules and slowly retrace our steps over the steep ascent. It seems as though the strain would break the backs of the animals. As we approached the summit of the path some one remarked, “I should think these mules would be so tired they would be ready to drop.” “Wait and see,” said the guide. A few minutes later we reached the top and dismounted, feeling pretty stiff from the exertion. The mules were unsaddled and turned loose. Away they scampered like a lot of schoolboys at recess, kicking their heels high in the air and racing madly across the field. “I guess they’re not as tired as we are,” said the Major, as he painfully tried to straighten up. Just then the little girl of twelve came up to me. “There is one thing,” she said, “that has been puzzling me all day. How in the world did you find out so quickly that your mule’s name was Sam?” “Name ain’t Sam,” interrupted the guide, bluntly. “Name’s Teddy—Teddy Roosevelt.”