Green River Valley. Camp at Tilted Ledge near Henry’s Fork.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Every morning the cabins of the boats were packed like so many trunks. The blankets were rolled up and put in their rubber cases, all bags of supplies were securely tied and stowed away, in short, every article was placed in the cabins and the hatches firmly buttoned in place, with the canvas cover drawn snugly over the deck. Only a grand smash-up could injure these things. Nothing was left out but such instruments as were hourly needed, the guns, life-preservers, and a camp-kettle in each boat for bailing purposes. On each of two boats there was a topographer, whose duty was to sight the direction of every bend of the river and estimate the length of the stretch. Thompson, on his boat, also kept a similar record. The sighting was done with a prismatic compass, and one of these was rendered more interesting by bearing on the leather case the name of George B. McClellan, written by the future general when he was a lieutenant of engineers. There was seldom much discrepancy between the different estimates made during the day, as men grow very accurate in such matters, but a check on all estimates was obtained by frequent observations for latitude and longitude.
Head of Kingfisher Canyon, Green River.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
The third canyon is also a short one, the three aggregating less than ten miles. Because of the many kingfishers flying about it was called Kingfisher Canyon, and a point where they were especially numerous was named Bee-hive. At the foot of this third short canyon the rocks ran together in a forbidding manner, and out of the depths beyond came a roar, just as one outside of the jungle might hear the lion’s note within. On a bright Friday morning we were ready to try our fortune, and with all made snug, pulled in between the cliffs where in a moment we beheld a wild sea of descending foam. Rapid quickly followed rapid and immediately we had some exciting work. Our boat was swept so near the right-hand cliff that one of the after rowlocks was torn off, and at about the same time the Nellie Powell, following but signalled to keep to the left, was seen to strike rocks near the opposite side and capsize. The next instant we were borne out of sight. Hillers, with only one rowlock, could not use his oars, so the work devolved entirely on me. The boat was heavy for one pair of oars, and we were being carried down stream at a terrific pace. On the left was a little beach where we might land, and I pulled for this with all my power. At length to my great relief I felt the keel touch bottom. We were still about fifteen feet from the beach, but the water was not any deeper than the grating of the keel indicated, so we were overboard in a moment and pulled her to the bank. At the same instant the Cañonita ran in, dashing up like a horse finishing a race. The crew reported the other boat upside down, but they were unable to stop to help her. They thought the crew were safe, and we hoped with all our hearts they were. There was nothing we could do but wait for some sign from above, and in about three quarters of an hour the boat came rushing down with all hands safe and exceedingly happy over claiming the distinction of the first capsize. Now many rapids fell to our lot, and we were kept busy every moment. On the 4th of June we passed the wrecks of some boats half-buried in the sand, and on landing we discovered a grave on a little knoll some distance back from the water, with a pine board stuck up at its head bearing the name of Hook. The rapid that had apparently caused the disaster told by these objects we easily ran. The unfortunates had attempted the descent in flat-bottomed boats, that shipped much water and toppled over with the slightest provocation. They had followed Powell on his former trip, declaring that if he could go down the river so could they, but they learned their mistake and paid dearly for the experience. The leader, whose bones lie in these splendid depths of Red Canyon, was said to have been the first mayor of Cheyenne. Many more rapids we ran with a current of from six to twelve or fifteen miles per hour, and we made many “let-downs,” which means working a boat along the edge of a rapid by the aid of lines, without removing the cargo. We called this process, when we removed the cargo, a “line portage,” as distinguished from a complete portage where the boats were taken out of the water.
Shortly after dinner one day we heard a deep roaring, which implied that we were approaching a violent fall, and hugging the left-hand bank, we drifted slowly down to within a rod or two of the drop and easily landed. It was Ashley Falls. In the centre of the river protruded an immense rock, twenty-five feet square, and the river rushed by on each side making a sudden descent of about eight feet. It would have been nothing to run had it been free from rocks; but it was in reality the rocks which formed it. They had fallen from the left-hand wall within some comparatively recent time, and acted as a dam. Many more were piled up against the left-hand cliff. The river, averaging about two hundred and fifty feet wide, had been narrowed by about one-third and a rapid had thus been changed into a fall. We made a portage here with the first and third boats. The second we allowed to run through with lines attached, but as she got several severe knocks we deemed it unsafe to risk the other. Our camp was on a small level place among some pine trees, almost over the fall, and I think I never saw a more romantic spot. The moon shone down into the canyon with surpassing brilliancy, and this, in contrast to our lavish camp-fire and extremely comfortable surroundings, made a combination ever to be remembered. See pages 113 and 112.
It was on one of the huge rocks above the river on the left that Ashley wrote his name. This was in black letters, sheltered by a slight projection of the rock which acted as a cornice. Thus it had remained distinct, except one figure of the date, for forty-six years, having been done in 1825. The portage around Ashley Falls was laborious as we were obliged to climb with everything about fifty feet above the river, but labour is better than disaster, and it was on such points as these that Powell and Thompson always exhibited good sense. Smaller men would have been unable to resist the temptation to run everything, for there comes an exhilaration in this work that is subtle and dangerous. Below this the declivity was very great, but as there were few rocks our boats were able to go down flying. The walls were two thousand to twenty-five hundred feet high, but not vertical. Suddenly we ran out into a beautiful little valley on the right known to trappers as Little Brown’s Hole, and renamed by our party Red Canyon Park. Here we camped for a day and then went on between high walls over a number of rapids, to emerge into Brown’s Park. This place, I take it, was the end of Ashley’s journey down the river. Sailing along on a quiet current in a valley six miles wide, we ran upon a camp of cattle herders, where Richardson left us, as Powell decided that he was not able to stand the work. He regretfully went back with some of the cattlemen to Green River Station.