In Cataract Canyon.
Highest Walls in this canyon 2700 feet.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Nevertheless no thought of pursuing any course but the one planned occurred to them, and on July 21st they cast off from the sand-banks and were carried rapidly down on the swift torrent of the Great Colorado. They had not gone far before plenty hard work was furnished, in the shape of two portages were necessary to pass particularly dangerous places, and numerous bad rapids to run. In the afternoon the Emma Dean, in attempting to navigate one of the more favourable-looking foaming descents, was swamped, pitching Powell and the others headlong into the roaring flood. They were fortunately able to cling to the boat till they floated into more tranquil waters, where they managed to climb on board, signalling the other boats to land before the plunge. This they could do, and the boats were brought down by a portage, which took all the rest of the day. The approach of darkness compelled a halt for the night on some rocks where they had barely room enough to lie down. Three much-needed oars had been lost with the capsize of the Dean. These were sadly missed in the rough water that surrounded them the following day, so at the first large pile of driftwood they made a landing and secured a cottonwood log for oar-timber. While the oars were making, Powell and his brother climbed up to where some pinyon trees were seen growing, and collected a quantity of gum with which to calk the leaky boats. They needed all the preparation possible, for the rapids now came ever thicker, ever faster, and more violent. The walls also grew in altitude from the thirteen hundred feet of the Junction to fifteen hundred feet, then to eighteen hundred feet, nearly vertical in places.
An examination of the barometric record was now made to see how much they had by this time descended toward sea-level, and, by comparison, about what might be expected in the river below. The conclusion was that though great descents were still ahead, if the fall should be distributed in rapids and short drops, as it had been above, and not concentrated great plunges, they would meet with success. But there in always remained the possibility of arriving on the brink of some high fall where no footing on either side could be obtained, and where a fierce current would prohibit a return. In such a case the exploration would have ended then and there. The newspapers before this time had printed a story of the expedition’s collapse. The outer world supposed that Powell and all his men but one had been destroyed, though A. H. Thompson wrote to the Chicago Inter-Ocean, which first published it, showing its absurdity. Mrs. Powell heard the story at her father’s home in Detroit and she pronounced it a fabrication, for she had received a letter subsequent to the date given for the destruction of the party. She also had faith in her husband’s judgment, caution, and good sense, so she refused to accept the tale at all, which was circulated by a man who had started from Green River Station, and who, by “pitching” this picturesque yarn, secured the sympathy and the purses of the passengers on an east-bound Union Pacific train. He told how Powell and all the men but himself had been suddenly swallowed up in an awful place, dark and gloomy and full of fearful whirlpools, called Brown’s Hole. From the shore, where he alone had remained, he had despairingly witnessed the party disappear in a mighty whirlpool never to rise again. But he made a mistake, so far as Mrs. Powell was concerned, in naming the spot. She knew very well that there was no danger whatever in Brown’s Hole, and that the river in this pretty park was the quietest on the whole course. But for its inventor the yarn had fulfilled its purpose, and he found himself east of the Mississippi, where he wanted to be, with a pocket full of dollars. A week or two after the story appeared letters were received from Powell via the Uinta Agency. These positively proved the falsity of the tale.
The Craggs at Millecrag Bend, foot of Cataract Canyon.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
The Music Temple Alcove, Glen Canyon.
So called because the men of Powell’s first expedition sang in the place. On entering one finds a huge cavern. Here the men who were later killed by the Shewits carved their names.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
On the fourth day in Cataract Canyon three portages were compulsory at the very outset to pass safely over a stretch where the waters tumbled seventy-five feet in three quarters of a mile, and at the end of this three quarters of a mile they camped again, worn out by the severe toil. Rapids now came with even greater frequency, between walls more than two thousand feet high and often nearly vertical from the water. On the 27th a flock of mountain sheep was discovered on the rocks not more than one hundred feet above their heads. The game did not see the hunters, who landed quickly in a convenient cove, and two fat sheep were added to the rapidly diminishing larder. On the next day they were startled by the sudden closing in of the walls, till the canyon, now nearly three thousand feet deep, became very narrow, with the river filling the chasm from one blank cliff to the other. The water was also swift and the canyon winding, so that it was not possible to see ahead. Powell was much disturbed lest they should run upon some impassable fall, but luckily in about a mile and a half they emerged again into a more broken gorge without having had the least difficulty. He justly remarks that after it was done it seemed a simple thing to run through such a place, but the first doing of it was fraught with keen anxiety. In the late afternoon of this same day, they came to the end of the forty-one miles of Cataract Canyon, marked by a deep canyon-valley entering from the left at a sharp bend where millions of crags, pinnacles, and towers studded the summit of the right-hand wall, now again thirteen hundred feet high. It was called Millecrag Bend, either then, or on the second expedition. A new canyon immediately formed; a narrow, straight canyon, with walls terraced above and vertical below. The thirteen hundred feet of altitude speedily diminished and in nine miles the voyagers were at the end. Low walls again began, forming the head of the next canyon of the series. Presently they arrived at the mouth of a river flowing in from the right, or west. The pilot boat ran up into this stream, and as the water of the Colorado had been particularly muddy, the men were eager to discover clear, sparkling affluents and springs. One behind shouted, “How is she, Jack?” and Jack sententiously replied, “Oh, she’s a dirty devil!” and by this title the river was long called, and probably is still so known in that region, though on the maps it was afterwards changed by Powell to Frémont River, in honour of the Pathfinder.