Through the Grand Canyon from Wyoming to Mexico

by E. L. Kolb

The sun, just above the lilac-tinted mountains, hung like a great suspended ball of fire. The cloudless sky glared like a furnace. Deep purple shadows crept into the canyons slashing the mountain range. The yellow dust-waves and the mirages disappeared with the going down of the sun. Still we were carried on and on. We would go down with the tide. Now the end of the island lay opposite the line of cliffs; soon we would be in the Gulf.

So ended the Colorado. Two thousand miles above, it was a beautiful river, born of a hundred snow-capped peaks and a thousand crystal streams; gathering strength, it became the masterful river which had carved the hearts of mountains and slashed the rocky plateaus, draining a kingdom and giving but little in return. Now it was going under, but it was fighting to the end. Waves of yellow struggled up through waves of green and were beaten down again. The dorsal fins of a half-dozen sharks cut circles near our craft. With the last afterglow we were past the end of the island and were nearing the brooding cliffs. Still the current ran strong. The last vestige of day was swallowed in the gloom, just as the Colorado was buried 'neath the blue. A hard wind was blowing, toward the shore; the sea was choppy. A point of rocks where the cliffs met the sea was our goal. Would we never reach it? Even in the night, which was now upon us, the distance was deceptive. At last we neared the pile of rocks. The sound of waters pounding on the shore was heard, and we hurriedly landed, a half-mile above it, just as the tide turned.

The beach was a half-mile wide, covered with mud and sloughs. There was no high shore. But an examination showed that the tide ran back to the cliffs. One of us had to stay with the boat. Telling Phillipps to get what sleep he could, I sat in the boat, and allowed the small breakers which fox-chased each other to beat it in as the tide rose.

An arctic explorer has said that having an adventure means that something unexpected or unforeseen has happened; that some one has been incompetent. I had the satisfaction of knowing that the fault of this adventure, if such it could be called, was mine. Here we were, at our goal in Mexico, supposed to be a hostile land, with scant provisions for one day. It was a hundred miles along the line of cliffs, back to Yuma. So far, we had failed to find the ranch. It was not likely that it was around the point of rocks. We knew now that the Colorado channel was fifteen miles from the mouth of the river, and was not a slough as we had supposed. Doubtless the ranch was up there. Our best plan was to return to the head of the tide, going up the Colorado, then if we did not find the ranch we would abandon the boat, snare some birds, keep out of the scorching heat, and travel in the morning and evening. Two active men should be able to do that without difficulty.

So the hours passed, with the breakers driving the boat toward the line of cliffs. When it had reached its highest point, I pulled into a slough and tied up, then woke Al as we had agreed. While I slept, he climbed the cliffs to have a last look. An hour after daybreak he returned. Nothing but rock and desert could be seen. We dragged the boat down in the slime of the slough until we caught the falling tide. Then Al rigged up his sail. With the rising sun a light breeze blew in from the Gulf. Here was our opportunity. Slowly we went up against the falling tide. Then as the breeze failed, the tide returned. Fifty feet away a six foot black sea bass floated; his rounded back lifted above the water. With the approach of the boat he was gone. The sharks were seen again.

Two hours later we had entered the mouth of the river carried by the rising tide. Several miles were left behind. Another breeze came up as the tide failed, and the sail was rigged up again. Things were coming our way at last. Al knew how to handle a boat. Running her in close to the top of the straight falling banks I could leap to the land, take a picture, then run and overtake the boat, and leap on again.

Then the wind shifted, the tide turned, and we tied up, directly opposite the point where we had camped the afternoon before. It was the hottest day we had seen Whirlwinds, gathering the dust in slender funnels, scurried across the plains. Mirages of trees bordering shimmering lakes and spreading water such as we had come through below Yuma were to be seen, even out towards the sea. Then over toward the cliffs where the old Colorado once ran we saw a column of distant smoke. Perhaps it was a hunter; it could hardly be the ranch. As we could do nothing with the boat, we concluded to walk over that way. It was many miles distant. Taking everything we had, including our last lunch, we started our walk, leaving a cloth on a pole to mark the point where our boat was anchored. But after going four miles it still seemed no nearer than before, so we returned. It was evening. The water was drinkable again; that was something to be thankful for. By ten o'clock that night the tide would come up again. After dark we found that our boat was being beached. So we ran it down and began pulling it along over a shoal reaching far out from the shore. As we tugged I was sure I heard a call somewhere up the river. What kind of a land was this! Could it be that my senses were all deceiving me as my eyes were fooled by the mirage? I had heard it, Al had not, and laughed when I said that I had. We listened and heard it again, plainly this time, "Can't you men find a landing? We have a good one up here," it said.

We asked them to row down, advising them to keep clear of the shoal. We waded out, guided by their voices, in the pitch darkness and neared the boat.

One shadowy form sat in either end of a flat-bottomed boat. There was a mast, and the boat was fitted for two oarsmen as well. Evidently the load was heavy, for it was well down in the water. The sail cloth was spread over all the boat, excepting one end where there was a small sheet-iron stove, with a pan of glowing wood coal underneath. The aroma of coffee came from a pot on the stove. As I steadied myself at the bow I touched a crumpled flag,—Mexican, I thought,—but I could not see. Both figures sat facing us, with rifles in their hands, alert and ready for a surprise. Smugglers! I thought; guns, I imagined. They could not see our faces in the dark, neither could we distinguish theirs. Judging by their voices they were young men. I thought from the first that they were Mexicans, but they talked without accent. They could see that we carried no arms, but their vigilance was not relaxed. They asked what our trouble was and we told them of the beached boat, what we had been doing, and why we were there. They said they were out for a little sight-seeing trip down in the Gulf. They might go to Tiburone Island. One of them wondered if it was true that the natives were cannibals. He said he would not care about being shot, but he would hate to be put in their stew-pot. We asked them how much water they carried. A fifteen-gallon keg was all They hoped to get more along the coast. It is quite well known there is none. They professed to be uninformed about the country, did not know there was a ranch or a tidal bore, and thanked us for our information about the tides, and the advice to fill their keg when the water was lowest, which would be in half an hour. They could not sell any provisions, but gave us a quart of flour.

As we talked an undermined bank toppled over, sounding like shots from a gun. One cocked his rifle on the impulse, then laughed when he realized what it was. Just before we parted one of them remarked, "You came through the Bee River four days ago, near a telephone, didn't you?" "Yes, but we didn't see any one," I replied.