An arm-chair obtained from Field was arranged so that it could be strapped on the deck of the middle cabin of our boat, as a seat for Powell, to enable him to be comfortable and at the same time see well ahead. This had a tendency to make the Dean slightly top-heavy, but only once did serious consequences apparently result from it, and I am not sure that the absence of the high load would have made any difference. Though Powell had descended before, he could not remember every detail and kept a sharp lookout always. The provisions—everything, in fact, except the bacon, which was too greasy—were put in rubber sacks that, when closed, were absolutely water-tight. These bags were encased in cotton sacks and gunny bags to protect the rubber. Each man was allowed one hundred pounds of baggage, including his blankets, and was given two rubber bags to stow it in. When the time came to load up we found we had a formidable pile of things that must go. The photographic apparatus was particularly bulky, for neither the dry-plate nor film had yet been invented. The scientific instruments were also bulky, being in wooden, canvas-covered cases; and there were eleven hundred pounds of flour in twenty-two rubber sacks.
Ready for the Start, U.S. Colorado River Expedition, Green River, Wyoming 1871.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN.
On the 22d of May, 1871, all being ready, and the boats finally packed, we prepared to push off. To save time, breakfast was taken at Field’s place, which, owing to the kindness of himself and his charming family, had seemed very much like home to us. Then the populace to the number of about fifteen—the Chinamen refusing to countenance any outfit harbouring such a terrible engine of the devil as a photographic apparatus—assembled on the beach to give us God-speed. The cheerful conception of this service on the part of a deaf-mute was to fill the air with violent gestures to indicate—and it was vivid enough—that we could not possibly escape destruction. One of his series represented with uncomfortable clearness a drowning man vainly striving to climb up a vertical wall. This pantomime was the last thing I saw from my position at the oars as we turned a bend and left the “city” behind.
Portraits of All but Two Members of the Boat Party of the U.S. Colorado River Expedition of 1871.
The others were E.O. Beaman and Andrew J. Hattan. In 1871 Messrs. Bishop, Steward, and Beaman were obliged to leave on account of ill health, and did not enter the Grand Canyon. These portraits were taken within a year or two after the expedition, that of Mr. Hillers on a hasty visit to Salt Lake.
We were much better provided for than the first party. We had a guide, our boats were superior, our plan for supplies was immeasurably better, both as to caring for what we took along and what we were to receive at the several indicated places—mouth of the Uinta, mouth of the Dirty Devil, Crossing of the Fathers, and the Paria. We also had rubber life-preservers to inflate at the more dangerous points. Mine did me little good, as I soon found it was in my way and I never wore it; nor did Hillers wear his. As we handled the oars of our boat we concluded it would be safer to do it in the best manner possible, and not be encumbered by these sausages under our elbows, but we always placed them behind us at bad places, ready for use; all the others, however, wore theirs and seemed to find no objection to them in the way of interference. A cork jacket could be worn easier when rowing, and I would recommend it, but the thing of first importance is to have the right kind of boats, and know how to handle them. An humble spirit is also a great safeguard. After starting, the usual number of slight accidents occurred, but there was nothing to interfere with our steady progress into the silent, lonely land, where the great Dragon, whose tail we were now just touching, tore the air to tatters with his writhings. Our light oars were snapped like reeds, but luckily we had plenty of extras, and some ten-foot ones were cut down to eight, and these proved to be strong enough. On the morning of the 23d we were treated to a snow-storm and the air was very cold. It soon cleared, however; and the sun shone again bright and warm, and we went on rejoicing. The next day we reached the mouth of Black’s Fork, and after this the river was deeper and we were less troubled by grounding, the boats being only three inches out of water at the gunwales. The area between Black’s Fork and the Green was strewn with beautiful moss-agates. I longed to secure a quantity, but this was out of the question. Geese and ducks floated on the water around us, but with our rifles it was difficult to get any. There was not a shot-gun in the party. We soon came in sight of the superb snow-covered Uinta range, extending east and west across the land, and apparently an effectual barrier to any progress of the river in that direction, but every day we drew nearer to it. Some of our men shot three deer, and we had fresh meat for a day or two, “jerking” all we could not consume in that time. There was plenty of game along the river here and for a long distance down, but we were not skilled hunters, nor did we have time to follow game or manoeuvre for it, so our diet was mainly confined to what Andy could produce by his manipulation of the supplies we carried. The day following the one that gave us the deer, the river became very winding, and a fearful gale blew across it, carrying sand into our eyes and some water into our boats. In the late afternoon we bore down on a ridge, about one thousand feet high, which extended far in both directions athwart our course. It was the edge of the Uinta Mountains. At its very foot the river seemed to stop. It could be seen neither to right nor, to left, nor could any opening be detected in the mountain, except high up where Powell pointed out to us a bare patch of brilliant red rocks saying it was the top of Flaming Gorge, the beginning of the canyon series. Passing the mouth of Henry’s Fork on the right, the river doubled suddenly to the left between two low cliffs, where there was a small whirlpool, which I take to be the “Green River Suck” of Ashley and the early trappers. Around another point we swept and found ourselves floating on the tranquil waters of Flaming Gorge. A fine grove of deep green cottonwoods stood out on the left in contrast to the rough red rocks. There were moored the other boats, which on this occasion had preceded us, and the ever-faithful Andy was engaged in preparing dinner. The next and first real canyon was the one called Horseshoe, a short and beautiful gorge some sixteen hundred feet in depth, and containing rapid “Number One,” a very mild affair, but particularly noticeable because it is the first of the six hundred, great and small, we had the satisfaction of vanquishing in our war against the falling waters. We had already descended something over one hundred and fifty of the five thousand feet we expected to go down, but there had been only swift water at that stage of flood; nothing that, on the Colorado, would be considered a serious rapid.